


Shadow of the Bookman: Volume One

by ButterflyGhost



Series: Shadow of the Bookman [1]
Category: due South
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 58,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The FBI have approached Ray to go undercover with the mob, and Ray has said 'no.' But it turns out that there is a skeleton in the Vecchio family closet. What is the secret which Ray can't allow to be revealed, and how do the FBI use it to turn him into the Bookman?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for remembered scenes of sexual abuse, not graphically described.

“Detective Vecchio,” the voice continued. “Did you hear what I said?

 

Floaty. For a disjointed moment he enjoyed the feeling, then reality started to bleed back in.

 

Reality? No. Not reality, because this wasn't true. Couldn't be. He stared at the FBI agent as the world came back into focus, and felt his face flinch in a reflexive smile. The joke was on him. From what part of his subconscious had he dredged up this particular nightmare? Pa had been a deadbeat, a down and out, a thorough waste of space. And yeah, he drank, and he gambled, and he knocked them around as kids, and he'd raised his fist to Ma... but there was no way he'd have done... that. Not what this suited voice had declared, so mercilessly. As though it was nothing, as though...

 

“Detective Vecchio.”

 

“Don't.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“No, I won't...” Shit. Who was he kidding? This wasn't a dream. This was just the FBI messing with him. He scraped back his chair, and rose abruptly. “We're done here. I'm not playing these games, and you're not playing me. So just...” He wished Benny was here, and not on leave. He wished he'd told Benny about this whole damned mess when he still had time, that he’d put his foot down weeks ago when they first started bothering him with this shit. He wished he had a clue what to do here, what to say.

 

“Detective Vecchio,” the agent said, his broad, pleasant face seeming gentle. “My colleagues and I are certainly not playing you.” He looked around the board table for confirmation, and the other agents nodded, synchronised. What, did they learn that trick at Fed school? How to be a robot. How to deliver vicious lies without blinking. “We simply thought you should be aware of everything before you made your mind up.”

 

“Yeah? Well, my mind's made up.” He shook his head, to clear it. He tried to think of something to say, something to express just how furious he was that they'd pull this shit on him. Nothing. He had nothing. He turned, and stalked out of the conference room. Slammed the door.

 

He was shaking. Shaking as he left the glass chrome building, shaking as he made his way to the car park, to his Riv. Shaking as he sat behind the wheel.

 

He knew the FBI were manipulative bastards, would do pretty much anything if they thought the ends justified the means, but even for them, this was... vicious. This was...

 

_Oh God. What if it's true?_

 

 _No._

 

He sucked in a deep breath, sat back, and started the car. Home. He was going home. He was going to sit next to Ma on a big plush couch, and listen to her talking about the kids, and how big the McAllister baby was getting, and fund-raising for the children's hospice. And he didn't care what those bastards said. He wasn't going to do it. He wasn't going to leave his family. Not Ma, not Frannie, not Maria and her kids, not Benny. Not even Big Tony. He was staying put, right here in Chicago. And when Benny came back from Canada they'd get back to their normal work routine, and he'd... yeah. He'd start to calm down.

 

He'd be fine.

 

Fine.

~*~

 

“They're rebuilding St Luke's,” Ma said, comfortably, finally sitting down and relaxing. Her left foot was sore enough with the arthritis that she had it up on the couch tonight. He'd told her to see the doctor, but she insisted it wasn't that bad. For once all the kids were in bed on time, the other adults were all out, and she was taking some time for herself. He'd even got her to accept a mug of hot milk sprinkled with cinnamon.

 

“Yeah, I saw they were doing that.” Ray had noticed the scaffolding, out of the corner of his eye, as he was driving back from the interview with the Feds. It barely flickered on his consciousness at the time, but it had been hovering in the background ever since, a dull ache in his temples. _Damn._ He was still feeling fuzzy round the edges. It was the interview. Or maybe it was just that things were too sharp. It was hard to tell. _St Luke's. Yeah._

 

“It's about time they fixed the place up. I hate to see an old building standing empty, let alone a church.”

 

Ray closed his eyes, remembering the ugly red brick building.

 

“Are you alright son?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, Ma.” He rolled his head back on the back of the armchair, trying to let the tension bleed out. “Don't worry. Just... tired. Tough day.”

 

“I'm sorry, Raimondo,” she said, like it was her fault. Then, straight to the point, as always. “If you want to talk about it...”

 

As always he shrugged her off. “Nah, it's okay. Nothing a little sleep won't cure.”

 

Ma shifted on the couch, huffed her disapproval at his reticence, and he heard the television start up. She was watching a nature programme. Something Benny would like, no doubt. For a moment he opened his eyes to watch the screen, and let out a faint laugh. Meerkats. Even weirded out and hyped up as he was, meerkats were funny. Ma glanced a smile at him, reassured by his laughter that he really was okay, and he let his eyes fall shut.

 

Agent Cash started talking in his head again, repeating the same ugly lie. Ray twisted in his armchair, trying to crush out the voice. _God Almighty,_ he thought. That the FBI could figure out the most monstrous trigger he had and abuse it like that... well, it made him sick. Sick of the Feds. Sick of himself. He’d been letting them call the shots for weeks now… what the hell was wrong with him? He should have just told them to piss off. Damn. They could play him like a child. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. He should have put childish things behind him. For a moment he almost laughed again. _The nuns would be proud of me._ Here he was, after all these years, with Sunday school lessons still resonating through his head. 'When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child. But when I became a man I put away the things of a child.'

 

Only, he hadn't. He still carried the child around inside him, and the fucking FBI had seen it. Seen him.

 

_Dirty, dirty bastards._

 

He itched beneath his skin, trying not to think. Not to move. Not to tip Ma off to the fact that he was so wired he felt like screaming. It wasn't so bad, he told himself, like a mantra. Not so bad... It wasn’t the FBI who were making him feel like this. He didn’t believe their lies after all. No, it was just… he had too much work, and Benny was in Canada, and he hadn’t been sleeping, and then Ma had to bring up St Luke’s. It wasn’t what Agent Cash had said about his father. Not at all. It was just the big red church in his memory, like a dirty old tombstone, or a broken tooth.

 

 _Damn._ He clutched his pleated trousers, then smoothed them. _Calm down, Raimondo,_ he told himself. _Don't give Ma anything to worry about. It's okay. You're okay. Just breathe. Breathe._

 

There'd been no Father Behan back then. He would have made all the difference.

~*~

 

 

“You're supposed to honour your father.” Father Curry's voice, cold in his memory. “If he disciplines you children, well, that's his job.”

 

“But...” Ray had shifted on his knees, glad that the priest couldn't see his tear smudged face through the grid. “He hits Ma too.”

 

“She's his wife. She should submit to him. You all should.”

 

“Yes, Father,” Ray whispered. The backs of his thighs still burned from the belt. (Yes, Pop, I'm sorry Pop. Don't...) “I'm sorry Father.”

 

“'Disobedience is as the sin of witchcraft,'” Father Curry declaimed, sternly. Ray covered his face, braced for his punishment. “The rosarium.” The priest's voice sounded more tolerant, now that penance had been decided. “All fifteen mysteries.”

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

He had gone straight to the pew from the confessional, and started his rosary immediately. The beads slid between his fingers as he muttered his prayers, knowing not to rush them, because then they wouldn't count. Even so, he said the whole rosary on his knees, so that his father wouldn't beat him for pretending to be holy when he got home. When he finished he didn't immediately leave. He bent forward, his eyes still shut, and rested his head on the wooden back of the pew in front of him. He was stiff, he was tired, his knees hurt, and he had to go home in the dark.

 

“You said your prayers well, Raymond,” came Father Curry's voice behind him. Ray flinched, sitting back on his haunches, then got to his feet. He hadn't realised the priest had been watching him. “A lot of children would have gabbled through them quickly. You obviously took your penance seriously.”

 

“Thank you, Father.” He didn’t want to tell the priest that he had been putting off going home.

 

“Let me see where he hit you.”

 

“Father?”

 

“You said he took his belt to you. I really should look, just to make sure that he was disciplining you appropriately.”

 

“Erm, you said... it's okay. It's not that bad.”

 

The priest sighed. “Still, I should look.”

 

Ray lifted one leg, tried to pull up the trouser.

 

“Not like that. Come through, I'll have a proper look.”

 

Ray bobbed into an obedient genuflection, and followed Father Curry through to the little room on the side. It was stuffed with cardboard boxes, and heaps of books, and dilapidated pictures of the saints.

 

“Trousers down,” said the priest.

 

Ray froze. He'd heard stories. Not about Father Curry, that was one of the reasons he’d come to him, that and he wasn’t Italian, might be more likely to believe him. But there were always stories.

 

“Oh, not like that,” the man snapped. “I'm not going to do anything, I just need to look.”

 

Flushing with shame Ray dropped his pants, and turned. Behind him Father Curry knelt, and touched his right thigh. Ray hissed against the cold fingers on the raised welt. He was frightened. The man's fingers trailed up and down his leg, touching the hot marks left by the lash. Then the left hand joined in, touching his other thigh, and Ray flinched, blinked back tears.

 

“Is it the same on your buttocks, Raymond?”

 

Ray didn't want to say anything, but it would be rude not to answer an adult, even ruder not to reply to a priest. “Yes, Father,” he whispered. In his head a little voice was repeating, _'please don't, please don't, please don't look.'_

 

Behind him, the man laughed, and stood. Ray realised to his shame that he had spoken aloud: “don't.”

 

“Pull up your trousers lad.”

 

Hurriedly, gratefully, Ray pulled up his pants, and turned round, facing the priest, but looking at the man's shiny black shoes, so as not to make eye contact.

 

“Your father hasn't done anything untoward,” Father Curry said. “He's harsh with his discipline, but within his rights. You'll just have to try harder not to offend him.”

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

“You made a good confession today, and a good penance. If you do anything to offend your father again, I want you to tell me.”

 

 _Why?_ “Yes, Father.”

 

“Good boy. Perhaps I can help you learn how to be more obedient.”

 

“Thank you, Father.”

 

Father Curry looked at him benevolently. “Call me John,” he said. Ray swallowed. That would be like calling his Ma 'Sophia', or Pa 'Joey.'

 

“Yes Fath... J... John.”

 

“Not in public, you understand. But when we're together like this.”

 

“Yes... John.”

 

The man smiled, then formed the sign of the cross over Ray's head. “God bless you, Raymond. I'll see you at school, no doubt, and next Saturday for confession.”

 

Ray nodded, walking out backward, then sketched the flimsiest genuflection of his life before running out of the church, and all the way home.

~*~

 

 

“Raimondo, are you asleep?”

 

Ray blinked, and he was back in his living room.

 

“Sorry, Ma, I musta dozed off.”

 

“I'm glad you're not at work tomorrow,” she said. “You look tired. You should lie in. Unless... do you want me to wake you up for Mass? Not the early one, we could go to the eleven o’clock.”

 

“No, Ma. I mean, I’ll probably get up, but I think I'll sit this one out.”

 

She nodded, used enough to it now that she wasn't offended. She wasn't that worried about his eternal soul anymore. She’d mellowed in the years since Pa died. She was as devout as ever, but her faith, although stronger, seemed less… terrified.

 

Thank God. He never wanted to give her something to pray about. Not the way she had prayed in his childhood, when she thought all the children were asleep, and couldn’t see her crying. He remembered waking sometimes, aching from a beating, and hearing her by his bed, whispering prayers. He had long ago decided that if he ever had a daughter, he would never call her Maria, no matter how much he loved his sister. Santa Maria had never done anything for him, despite his mother’s whispered pleas. Looking at Ma now, comfortable in her own home, he found it hard to imagine that such a strong woman could ever have been so utterly ground down.

 

He closed his eyes again. He'd been so glad when they shut St Luke's. The church, the school, the whole rotten heap. Now they were rebuilding the damned thing.

 

Well, Father Curry was long gone, and Ray was a grown man now, so there was nothing really for him to fear or resent in that old building. And he didn't blame the Church, not really. He blamed Father Curry, and he blamed Pa, and he blamed his nine year old self. Which, he knew, was unfair... he'd never blame another kid in that kind of situation. But he still, after all these years, felt like he should have known better. He did know better, that was the worst thing. But after asking for help, and having it used against him like that... he couldn't ask anyone else. And besides, all the man had ever done was look. He didn't even touch him, other than that first time, when he touched the abrasions on his legs.

 

Shit. His eyes flew open. Did the FBI know about it? Shit. His heart hammered in his chest like he'd been running. The damn bastards knew how much he hated his father, that's why they'd come out with that bullshit story. Maybe they knew everything.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered.

 

“Raimondo?”

 

“Sorry, sorry Ma. I just... bad dream.” He got to his feet, stretched like everything was normal, then bent down and kissed her on the top of her head. “I'd better go to bed while I can still climb the stairs.”

 

“Buona notte, mio bambino.”

 

“Buona notte, Ma.”

~*~

 

 

It wasn’t a good night though. The story that the FBI had told him kept twisting around in his head and his heart, clenching in his stomach, making him nauseous and sad. He knew it couldn’t be true, but something kept whispering to him… _what if it is?_ Surely somebody would have said something to him by now though. After all, it was nearly forty years. You couldn’t keep a secret for decades, could you?

 

Yeah, yeah you could. He’d never told anyone about Father Curry after all.

 

“Oh Jesus Christ,” he groaned, part of him conscious, as always, of the blasphemy. He looked up at the ceiling, ironically. “If You’re listening,” he said, “I could do with some help down here.”

 

No answer. Wasn’t that always the way?

 

When he was a child, he’d been sure that the reason God, or the Virgin, or her Son, had never answered was because he was such a loser. After all, Pa said he was a loser often enough, and what kind of kid was so rotten his own father hated him? He’d pray for Pa to stop drinking his wages, he’d pray for him to stop beating them, but things would stay the same. Ray’s fault… If he wasn’t such a whiny little brat his father wouldn’t keep leaving the house to get drunk. If he didn’t get on his nerves, Pa wouldn’t have to hit him. His own father couldn’t stand him, so it was no wonder God didn’t listen.

 

And then, the biggest irony of all. Years, and years, and years after it was all over, just at the point when he’d convinced himself the whole thing was a lie… no heaven, no hell, no afterlife… Pa decided to start haunting him. Ray laughed. Maybe he’d just been having a breakdown, but…

 

It was such a damned vivid ghost. Like Pa it had smelled of booze, and cigarettes. It had talked like the old man, walked like him, said things that Ray had long forgotten he remembered. Other people shivered when the thing walked past. Yeah, Ray might have wished it wasn’t real, but he knew in his bones that it was. And if a ghost could walk the earth, then maybe the rest of it was true as well. Not necessarily the way the Church said, but at least some of it. Which should have been comforting, but… If God was a father, then Ray wasn’t sure he wanted to know Him. He’d never had much luck with fathers.

 

At least the old man was gone now. Ray hadn’t seen him since that final confrontation in the Canadian woods, when Pa tried to bully him into leaving Benny to die. What a prince the old bastard was. At that moment, Ray had realised that he’d spent his whole life feeling inadequate, trying to live up to a man who really, he owed nothing to. A man with no loyalty, no love…

 

No loyalty. If what the FBI said was true, the man had never had a shred of loyalty, or decency at all. Ray flung an arm over his eyes, still trying desperately to sleep. It was clawing away in his heart now, an increasing dread that maybe it was true after all.

 

“Jesus,” he whispered. “Jesus Christ.” He didn’t know if it was blasphemy or prayer, but he couldn’t think of a single other thing to say.

~*~

 

 

“Raymond,” Father Curry said. “Like that. Stand still. Keep your eyes closed.”

 

Ray stood still, in the posture that Father Curry had chosen for him, with his eyes squeezed so tightly shut they hurt. He could hear the priest breathing, but the man didn’t touch him. Didn’t ever touch him. Ray lived in fear of the day he did.

 

“Good boy,” the man said, his breathing getting ragged. “Stay there, just like that. Hold it so I can see it.” His voice was going gaspy and rough. “Good, good, good boy.” Then he made that strange noise of his, and Ray wrinkled his nose at the sudden sharp smell which always followed it. He didn’t open his eyes. In the dark he could hear the man moving, getting to his feet. ‘Cleaning up,’ Ray thought, miserably. He’d never seen what happened, but he could guess. He might be only a kid, but he wasn’t stupid. Kids talked to each other about things. Ray had been told about it. He knew what men did.

 

“You can open your eyes now,” Father Curry said. “And put your clothes on.”

 

Ray opened his eyes, to look for his clothes and…

 

He was in the Lieutenant’s office. Welsh was dressed in clerical robes, and everyone he worked with was staring in the window. Benny opened the door, and looked at his nakedness with such… disappointment.

 

“Ray,” he said. “I expected better of you.”

~*~

 

 

Ray woke the whole house up with his screaming.

~*~

 

 

“That was some nightmare,” Frannie said, at breakfast. Maria glared at her, Ma looked away. The rest of the family had decided to pretend last night hadn’t happened, but Frannie, as usual, was having none of it. Because Frannie never knew when to stop, and she always thought you could talk everything better.

 

“What,” she said, gesturing with her cutlery. “It’s true, it was a hell of a nightmare. It’s bad to bottle things up.” She shoved her fork into the bacon, and smiled at her brother encouragingly. “You’d feel better if you got it off your chest.”

 

Ray glowered at his plate. Frannie carried on, obliviously. “I’ve been reading about repression, or regression, or aggression… some shunny thing anyway. Apparently, if you bottle things up, it can cause all kindsa problems.” She looked at Ray meaningfully. “Like bad dreams.”

 

“Leave it, Frannie,” Maria warned, under her breath.

 

“So, Ray,” Frannie asked, talking between mouthfuls. “What was it about?”

 

“He doesn’t want to talk about it,” Maria said, pointedly.

 

“Sure he does.”

 

“I don’t remember,” Ray said, pushing his breakfast round the plate.

 

“Don’t try and pull that one on me,” Frannie said cheerfully. “You’re a terrible liar.”

 

“Yeah? How would you know?”

 

“I can see it written all over your face,” she said. “You never could keep a secret.”

 

And Ray felt himself go white, and cold.

 

Secrets…

 

His breakfast plate shattered with a crash against the wall, food scattering to the floor. For an instant he was outside of everything, could see himself, the image of Pa, looming over the kitchen table, while his women folk cowered away. At a far distance he heard Vito, Maria’s youngest, starting to wail.

 

He blinked, and everything crowded back in. The look of fear on his sisters’ faces. The children rigid with shock. Ma with her hands to her mouth.

 

He opened his mouth to say ‘sorry,’ but the word died on his tongue. He hated that word. He couldn’t say it, because then… then he really would be Pa. He’d be the man who smashed the place up, then said sorry, like an apology would ever make a difference.

 

It struck him that he was looking at his family through a veil of water, and then he blinked, felt it on his face. A slow slither, warm, like blood from a blow, or…

 

Tears. He was crying.

 

 _‘Big baby,’_ his father said, in his memory. _‘Learn to take it, be a man.’_

 

He shook his head helplessly, stepped back, banging into his chair.

 

“Raimondo,” his mother said, in a small voice, the voice with which she had pleaded with her husband. “Raimondo…” _(‘Giuseppe.’)_

 

He turned, and ran.

~*~

 

 

Maria found him, sitting on the step outside St Luke’s. He squinted up at her, shielding his eyes with one hand.

 

“How’d you find me?”

 

“Must be psychic,” she said, and sat next to him. “Nah, I just knew you wouldn’t go far on foot. Frannie went North. I called Tony and he went…”

 

“Oh, shit.” He scrubbed his hands over his scalp. “Now I got the whole family out on a manhunt. I’m sorry.” His voice-box tensed shut. He’d said the hated word. ‘Sorry.’ “I mean,” he stuttered. “I don’t know why I did that.”

 

“Frannie shouldn’t have egged you on.”

 

“Oh yeah, right.” He snorted. “Obviously, it’s Frannie’s fault. It’s okay to smash things up if you can say a woman made you do it.”

 

Maria nudged him with her elbow. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

“I know." God, if anyone knew that, it was Maria. How many times had she been the one Pa blamed for his outbursts? "I know. I just…” He shook his head. “I can’t believe I did that. It was like…” He looked at her, seeing her tight-faced concern. “It’s like I turned into Pa.”

 

She put a hand on his shoulder. “No,” she said. “No, it’s not. You didn’t hit anyone. You didn’t blame anyone. And you stopped.”

 

Ray leant forward, elbows on his knees, and covered his face with his palms. “How’s Ma,” he managed.

 

“Worried.”

 

“How’s Vito?”

 

“Playing with Angelica on the swings. He’ll be fine.”

 

“He shouldn’t have had to see that.”

 

“I know. None of them should.”

 

Ray glanced at his sister, and, strangely, found himself smiling. She wasn’t offering easy sympathy, she wasn’t saying what he’d done had been okay. He’d just burst out in anger in front of her three kids, but she was sitting here with him, all the same. That was something.

 

“Not that I want to set you off again,” she said, “but… do you want to talk about it?”

 

Ray swallowed.

 

“You don’t have to.”

 

“I know.”

 

They sat in silence, watching the pigeons flutter through the struts of the scaffolding. _Sunday morning,_ thought Ray, _and I finally made it to church. Okay, a dead church, not open yet. But still…_

 

He sighed. Scrubbed his face again, like he could clean it, and sat upright.

 

“You remember Father Curry?”

 

Maria nodded, watching him carefully. “Yeah, I remember him. Started teaching Latin the year before I went to High School. He taught you too, didn’t he?”

 

“What did you think of him?”

 

“Don’t tell Ma, but I thought he was a bit of a shit, really.”

 

Ray laughed out loud at her frank assessment. “Any particular reason?”

 

“Well, he loved the sound of his own voice. Remember his sermons? All hell-fire and brimstone… and boy, if you got him in confession.” She rolled her eyes. “Phooey, that man gave out tough penances.”

 

“Yeah,” Ray nodded, bitterly. _Penance._ “Yeah. I remember that.”

 

Maria sat silently for a little longer. Her hand had drifted down from his shoulder, and was resting on his arm. He turned his palm up, and closed his hand around her slender fingers.

 

“Thanks, Maria,” he said.

 

She nodded, like she knew what he was thanking her for. After another moment of silence she said, “why did you ask about Father Curry?”

 

He shuddered, and realised too late that she must have felt it, running from his fingers through her own body, like an electric current. She stiffened next to him, and her hand tightened around his.

 

“God, Ray,” she whispered. “Did he…”

 

He shook his head, convulsively. “He didn’t touch me.”

 

“What did he do?”

 

“He…”

 

“What?”

 

Ray closed his eyes. Maybe Frannie was right. Maybe he should tell someone. Maybe he shouldn’t have buried it all these years…

 

“Ray,” Maria’s voice was very quiet. “Ray, you can tell me anything.”

 

“He…”

 

Maria’s other arm came around him in a hug, and he rested his head on her shoulder.

 

“He never touched me,” he said. “He never… never touched me.” He wanted to tell her the truth of it, that the man had watched him. Made him stand there blind, and naked, and touch himself. But…

 

You couldn’t say that to your sister. You couldn’t say that to anyone.

 

She was rocking him against her, like he was one of her little ones, and he should have been ashamed of himself, a grown man, sitting in the street, crying into his sister’s hair, but…

 

“He didn’t touch me,” he told her. “I swear to God, Maria, he didn’t touch me.”

 

“It’s alright,” she soothed him, like Ma. “It’s alright Raimondo, it’s not your fault.”

 

 _But it was,_ he thought, helplessly. He had known better.

 

“I shoulda told someone,” he whispered. “Why didn’t I tell anyone?”

 

“It’s okay,” she said. “You’ve told me.”

 

He shook his head, and shook his head.

 

“Why didn’t I ask for help?”


	2. Chapter 2

Monday morning, and bad coffee, and Lieutenant Welsh’s voice bellowing through the bullpen.

“Detective Vecchio, a word, please.”

Ray felt his stomach clench. Although he had surprised himself by sleeping well, with no bad dreams, the memory of Sunday morning’s nightmare had left a nasty taste. He’d felt slightly sick when he arrived at work. Probably his own fault, he’d not been eating well for days now. Blood sugar or something; he should make himself eat. Everyone was milling around the bullpen as usual, and not one of them looked at him with disgust or amusement, as they had done in his dream. Even so, the shame of it remained.

Welsh stood in his office door, and crooked his finger. He was wearing a suit, not a cassock, and Ray had all his clothes on, but still…

His face flushed, and his palms sweated, and he walked across to Welsh’s office with the grim determination of a man marching to his execution.

Welsh shut the door behind him, and Ray closed his eyes. For a moment, in the darkness, it was Father Curry standing in the room with him. He snapped his eyes back open, trying not to hyperventilate. It was only Lieutenant Welsh.

“Detective. Are you feeling okay?”

“Sorry, Sir,” Ray lied smoothly. “I’m fine.”

“Alright,” the Lieutenant said, doubtfully. “Well then. Take a seat, Detective. It seems we have something to discuss.”

Ray sat, and didn’t say anything. Welsh looked at him, and didn’t say anything. _Great,_ thought Ray. _A staring contest._ A childish urge rose up in him, and he decided to assert some control over the situation. He knew it was petty, he knew he wasn’t going to win anything from it, but… dammit. He wasn’t going to say anything. Welsh could speak first.

Eventually, he did.

“So,” the Lieutenant said. “I understand that you’ve been approached by the FBI for an undercover job.”

Ray flinched. Welsh gave a grim nodded.

“Is there any reason you didn’t tell me about it?”

“Well, Sir,” Ray spoke as calmly as he knew how. “I didn’t realise I had to. I have no intention of taking the job.”

“Really?” Welsh leant back on his chair, and folded his hands. “The FBI seem to think otherwise.”

“Yeah?” Ray felt his patience snap. “Well the FBI can go hang themselves. What do they know about it?”

“I don’t know, Detective. You tell me.”

Ray shook his head. “They’re just messing with me,” he said. “I don’t want to leave my family, I sure as hell don’t want to go undercover with the Mob. Besides,” he tried for a laugh. “If I go undercover, who’s gonna look after the Mountie?” 

Welsh smiled at that, and Ray hated himself, quietly, for making a joke of it. He really didn’t want to leave Benny in the lurch. He knew Benny had other friends in Chicago now, that his family would keep an eye out for him, but… Benny was such a babe in the woods. What the hell would his friend do, what would he think if he came back from vacation, and Ray had vanished into thin air? Who would watch Benny’s back? Ray felt a little clutch of fear. Okay, Benny was a grown man, a police officer in his own right, a mighty good one… one of the best. But still… When Ray looked at him all he could see was his kid brother. Not Paulie, not his actual kid brother… but still, somehow, _famiglia._

And Benny needed _famiglia._ Somebody needed to care for him, because, God knew, everyone else had abandoned him or died. He didn’t want to be another one in the long line of Benny’s ‘disappeared.’

“I’m not going anywhere, Sir,” Ray said, in a low voice, looking his boss straight in the eye. “They might be the FBI, but they’re not the boss of me, and I won’t do it.”

Welsh nodded, thoughtfully. “Well, I must admit, I’m glad to hear it. You’ve been working very well recently, and I’d hate to lose you. And Big Red would certainly miss you . . . But I gotta be straight with you. The FBI made a very compelling case that you’re the only person who can do this job. Have you really thought what it might mean?”

“You think I care about promotions?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Vecchio. But, if you could get in there, really get in, then you could help bring down one of the biggest crime families in the country.”

“I know, Sir,” Ray said. “Not to put too fine a point on it though, I’m a bit of a coward.”

Welsh raised a disapproving eyebrow. “You know that’s not true, Detective. Don’t put yourself down. You’ve taken a bullet for your partner, jumped on a moving train with a nuclear bomb on it for goodness sake. You might be pig-headed, disrespectful of authority, and a king-sized pain in the butt, but you’re not a coward.”

“Jeez,” Ray rolled his eyes. “Thanks...”

“You’re welcome.”

“I just… I don’t wanna leave Ma and Frannie, and Maria and her kids.”

“Yeah, I know.” Welsh sighed. “You’ve gotta lot of responsibility.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Tony’s a good guy. And he works his guts out. But… he’s not so good at keeping jobs.” 

“You do realise that your family would be looked after while you were undercover, that you’d be paid a considerable bonus for the danger you were taking, and that -”

“Yeah, yeah. In the case of my unfortunate demise there’d be a big pay-out, and my family would never need for anything again. Yada yada yada.” 

_Oops,_ Ray thought, the moment the words were out. _That’s too cheeky, even for me…_

Welsh glared at him, but, surprisingly, didn’t call him out for his insolence. “Well, I’m glad to know that you’ve thought this through, Detective. However,” he paused. “This goes way up the food chain. The Deputy Director of the FBI called and personally asked me to appeal to your sense of justice. They informed me that I should remind you that there is nobody else as well qualified for this assignment as you are, and that, in fact, you are the only person who could possibly do it.”

“Yeah? And why’s that, Sir?” Ray couldn’t help the bitterness in his voice. At times it felt like all his life somebody had been making him do things he didn’t want to. Welsh was just doing his job, passing on a message for the FBI, but in this room he was the guy with authority. Right now, Ray had no patience with authority at all.

Welsh ignored Ray’s tone of voice, and carried on talking as though his detective wasn’t in danger of insubordination.

“Well, you understand the Italian-American community, you’ve grown up in a neighbourhood with heavy Mafia activity and know the scene, you speak the correct dialect of Italian. On top of which, you look so much like this Armando Langoustini that you could be the man’s twin.”

That did it. Agent Cash’s voice came back into his head, loud as a hammer, and Ray leant forward, covering his mouth with his hand. Swallowed.

And perhaps… perhaps the FBI weren’t lying at all. Perhaps it was all true. Perhaps his father, Pop, Joseph ‘Giuseppe’ Vecchio, really was what they had said he was. A man with no honour, no heart, no faith at all.

If that was so, if it was all true... He couldn’t imagine what it must have cost Ma, how much pain she must have been in all these years. He’d do anything, anything to keep her from knowing the truth…

“Detective. Are you alright?”

“Sorry, Sir,” Ray said, vaguely. “I think I’m gonna be…”

He stood, trying to make a dash to the men’s room, but didn’t get as far as the door. Barely made it to the wastepaper basket.

There wasn’t actually much to bring up, other than coffee. Ray realised, with a strange sense of detachment that Ma was right: he really hadn’t eaten much recently. 

When he’d finished throwing up, Welsh was standing next to him, big meaty hand on his back. Ray found, to his surprise, that he didn’t mind. After all, in real life, Welsh was just his boss. A good guy, nothing at all like Father Curry.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” he said, feeling guilty for his dream as much as for the mess. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Are you alright now, Detective?”

“Yeah. I’m… I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind.”

Welsh nodded, a serious expression on his face. “Well,” he said. “I’ve finished for now anyway. The FBI wanted me to talk to you, to make their case, and I’ve done it. You’ve obviously thought about it, you obviously have good reasons to turn them down, and that’s your right.” The man squeezed Ray’s shoulder reassuringly. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t blame you. I’ll be glad to keep you on the team. Don’t let them bully you into anything you don’t want to do.”

“No, Sir. I won’t.”

“You wanna take the rest of the day off?”

“No.” Ray squared his shoulders. “I’m fine, Sir.” He couldn’t have Welsh sign him off sick now… he needed to work. “Really,” he repeated for emphasis. “I’m absolutely fine.”

“You’ve been looking a bit peaky for days,” Welsh said. “You sure you don’t need time off?”

“I said I’m fine.” _Jeez._ Ray closed his eyes. _Stop barking at the man, you’ll get yourself fired._

Welsh was surprisingly mellow and didn’t react to Ray’s tone. “Okay. But if you do decide you need the sick days, that’s fine too. I might be a hard task master, but I prefer not to work my detectives to death. Looks bad.” 

“Thank you, Sir, but I’d sooner work.”

Welsh laughed, still trying to break the tension. “If only more of my detectives took that attitude, Vecchio, this place would be much more productive.”

Ray laughed back, obediently. “Yeah, we’d clean up Chicago.” He grimaced a little, and stooped, apologetically tying up the trash bag he had just thrown up in. “I’ll get rid of this, Sir.” 

“You do that,” Welsh said. “And Detective?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Just remember, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

 _That’s right,_ he thought, washing his hands after disposing of the garbage. _I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to. I’m not nine years old anymore._

The FBI could go screw themselves. He was turning his back on the whole damn thing.  
~*~

One good thing about breaking down around Maria. She didn’t treat him like he was made of glass. Not only that, she didn’t go blabbing to Ma, or Frannie, and she didn’t keep pushing him to ‘talk about his feelings,’ or get counselling. She just carried on, as though nothing had happened. He was no sooner back from work than his sister had deposited Vito upon him. “Watch him,” she said. “I gotta help Angie with her homework.”

“Can’t she do her homework with Willie?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “You expect me to leave Angie alone doing ‘homework’ with her boyfriend? You think I’m that stupid?”

“It’s… Willie,” Ray stuttered. “They’re just kids…” But, actually, Maria had a point, now that he thought about it. He’d been about Willie’s age when he’d first started sneaking kisses with Irene. Willie and Angie were growing up, and Willie was definitely following Angie around like a love sick puppy… “Yeah, okay,” he conceded. “You go keep an eye on Romeo and Juliet.” 

Maria smiled, popped a kiss on his cheek, and went upstairs to bang on her daughter’s door.

Ray settled at the kitchen table, with Vito on his knee, relieved that his sister still trusted him with her baby. 

“Hungry? You want something to eat, Vito?”

Vito nodded enthusiastically. He was a bright enough kid, but he didn’t really talk much. Like most young Vecchios he seemed to be biding his time, waiting till he could figure out whether it was worth speaking Italian or English first. Technically, of course, as Tony was all too keen to point out, Vito was a Greco, not a Vecchio. Ray grinned at Vito’s solemn baby face. Yeah, well, Tony was fighting a losing battle. The whole clan, for better or worse, were Vecchios, whatever their paternal name, in honour of Ma. That was a good thing, Ray thought. A very good thing. So what if Vecchio meant, literally, ‘old man’. His old man had nothing to do with it anymore. His Ma was the Matriarch these days, the true head of the family, no matter what the lease on the house said. Ray just owned the place. She was the heart of it.

“Here you go, kid.” Ray pulled a dish toward the youngest Vecchio, and held up a peeled grape. “You want one?”

Apparently the answer was yes. Vito sucked the fruit greedily from his fingers, making slurp noises, and giggling as pink juice ran down his chin. Ray kissed the little curly head. Vito tipped his head back, grinning upside down, and made a ‘kiss kiss’ face. “You forgive me, don’t you Vito,” Ray said, softly, still ashamed of his outburst the day before. Vito grabbed a grape, and shoved it in his uncle’s mouth. 

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” 

“Nunc nunc zio,” Vito said, solemnly, and bilingually, before shoving a second grape at Ray’s nostril. 

“Yeah, I know, kid. I gotta big schnozz. Don’t knock it, you got one too.”

“Raimondo,” Ma’s voice broke into their conversation. “Phone for you. I think it’s work.”

Ray stood and handed Vito to his mother before taking the handset. “Detective Vecchio,” he said. 

“Detective. Have you thought about what we discussed?"

The handset slipped in his hand, and he damn near dropped it. The Feds. 

“What the hell are you ringing me at home for,” he hissed when he had the door shut between him and Ma.

“We had a meeting scheduled for today which you didn’t attend.”

“Yeah? Well, newsflash, I’m not attending anymore of your goddamned meetings. You got me? I ain’t doing it. I’m a cop, I’ve got real work to do.”

“This is real work, Detective. This is real police work. Any cop can do the sort of work you’re doing now. But you’re the only one who can do this job. And you owe it to your family…”

“You leave my family out of this.” His hand ached on the receiver he was clenching it so hard. “You know nothing about my family. You don’t talk to them, you don’t touch them, and you never, ever ring me here again.” He slammed the phone into its cradle, and covered his face. “Shit.”

The phone rang.

“Caro,” Ma called from the kitchen. “Could you get that?”

_Maybe it’s Ma’s sister. Maybe it’s one of Maria’s Mom brigade phoning about the charity bake sale. Maybe… maybe it’s Benny._

He knew who it was going to be though, even as he picked up the phone.

“Detective Vecchio,” the voice said. “It’s not very professional to hang up in the middle of a conversation.”

 _They’re never going to let up,_ he thought, bleakly. “What,” he said, tightly, keeping his voice down. “What the hell do you people want from me?”

“We’d like an answer.”

“I’ve given you my answer. It’s ‘no.’”

“Really? Even after everything we’ve told you?”

“I don’t believe what you told me,” he said, even though, in the pit of his stomach, he was beginning to realise that he did believe it after all.

“Well, Detective Vecchio. It’s not a matter of taking us on blind faith, after all. You’re an experienced investigator. If you honestly think that we’re lying, you should be able to prove it. Follow the evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Do some detecting of your own,” the voice said, dryly. “When you’ve proven to your own satisfaction that we’re telling you the truth, then you can make your mind up.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“Are you sure?” The voice sighed, as though disappointed. “It would be a real shame if the story ever got out. I’d hate for your mother to have to hear…”

Ray’s hands clenched around the receiver. “Leave my mother alone.”

“That’s really up to you, Detective.”

And then Ray found that he couldn’t speak at all. The silence on the phone line hissed through his head, and then the voice returned, completely professional and cool.

“We’ll give you time to conduct your own inquiries, then call you back. Until later, Detective.”

There was a click, and the line went dead.

“Fuck,” he muttered, staring at the receiver. “Fuck.”

“What does that mean, Ray? ‘Leave Ma alone.’” Frannie’s small voice floated down the stairs. “What does that mean?” 

Ray started, and turned, looked up at his sister. Frannie was standing, part way down the stairs, fresh from the bath, wearing a huge purple gown and mismatched slippers. For some peculiar reason Ray fixated on the slippers… one pink, one brown. She stepped down toward him, cautiously, and he looked up at her face, feeling caged. Her hair was mussed up from shampooing, her face devoid of makeup, and she looked younger than her years. Like the child she once was, the little sister he had fought so hard to protect, from the day she toddled into their father’s shins one Thanksgiving, and made him spill his drink. Not much older than Vito.

A lump rose in Ray’s throat. 

“God, Frannie.” He dropped the phone for the second time into its cradle, and blustered, forcing gruffness into his voice in an effort to distract her. “Sneak up on me, why don’t you?” It didn’t work. She continued her determined descent of the stairs, keeping her eyes trained steadily on his face.

“Ray, are you in any trouble?”

 _God's sake,_ he thought, _you can’t keep any secrets in this house._ He winced as soon as he thought it. He knew better than that. Yes, you could.

“No,” he lied, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” She was at the bottom of the stairs now, looking up at him, chewing her bottom lip anxiously. There was an odd look on her face, and for a moment he couldn’t place it. Then it hit him, sharply, in the heart. He’d know that expression in any other context. He’d just never seen it on his sister’s face before… at least, he had… but never when she was looking at _him._

She was afraid. She was looking at him like he was Pa, or that shit of an ex-husband of hers, or any other guy who’d ever tried to beat up on her. She was looking at him like she was afraid of him. _Oh, God, Frannie…_ and despite all that, she was still screwing up her courage to ask him if he was alright.

He must have scared the shit out of her, he thought, when he threw that stupid plate. Poor Frannie. He’d never, ever wanted to be that man.

“Aw, Sis,” he said, and dropped a kiss on her damp hair. If there was ever anything he could do to get rid of that fear, he’d do it. If he could take back everything anyone had ever done wrong to her he would. “I’m sorry. I wish… it’s just work stuff. I wish I could talk about it, but, you know…”

“Ray,” she said, very carefully, and very quietly. “If it’s, uhm… if it’s family stuff. I mean…” she nodded her head significantly, and made quotation marks with her fingers, “I mean, ‘Family’ stuff, you can tell me.”

Ray looked at her for one beat, and heard himself, in the distance, starting to laugh.

Frannie thought he was a crooked cop. His little sister was walking around thinking that he was mobbed up. Holy shit, he really had fucked everything up, hadn’t he, if his own sister thought so badly of him.

When he stopped laughing, he was sitting on the bottom step, rubbing tears from his face. Frannie was sitting next to him, patting his back clumsily, looking confused.

A voice came from upstairs. Maria.

“Ray,” she called down. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” He was surprised to realise that he was hiccuping. “Fine.”

“Frannie,” Maria’s voice sounded sharp. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing!” Frannie’s voice sounded just as sharp back, and Ray put his hands to his ears. _Battling sisters, just what I need._ At the best of times they drove each other up the wall. Last thing anyone needed was them fighting over him.

“Raimondo,” his mother’s voice broke in, as the kitchen door opened. There she was, with Vito on her hip, and concern in her eyes. He groaned. “Is everything alright?”

That was it. There was only so much feminine sympathy any man could take. He grabbed the banister, hauled himself to his feet, and snatched his coat from the hook.

“Where are you going, Ray,” Frannie asked, still in her slightly scared voice. 

If he was Pa he’d go to a bar, but he wasn’t Pa. If Angie hadn’t left him, he might take her to a movie, or dinner, but that was years ago. If Irene…

_Don’t think about Irene._

And if Benny was here, well, it would be alright. He would have had someone to talk to, even if he couldn’t tell him everything. He wouldn’t feel so… so sick and helpless. Even if he couldn’t have told him everything, and God knew, he couldn’t tell Benny everything… at least he’d have someone to bum around with. If Benny wasn’t in Canada he could just tell his family that he was going to see his friend. He could talk to the wolf even, but…

Benny and the wolf weren’t there. There was nobody, not really. Nobody else he could tell without hurting them. Nobody he could trust with it, just relax around.

Where was he going? He didn’t have a clue.

“Where are you going, Raimondo?” Ma repeated his question, as though she could hear his thoughts now, and he threw his hands up in the air.

“I don’t know. Out. I’m fine. I just…” He fished around in his pocket, to make sure his keys were there. “I’m going for a drive.” Before he could be further assailed by his family’s concern, he swung open the front door, and ran down the steps.

 _Great one, Vecchio,_ he told himself as he made his escape. _If that doesn’t freak them out worse, I don’t know what will._ He felt his mouth curl bitterly as he started up the Riv. At least this time, he told himself, he hadn’t thrown anything. Hadn’t shouted. Hadn’t made the baby cry.

It was small comfort.  
~*~

He drove through the city, going nowhere in particular, and ended up parked outside Benny’s apartment. He saw other tenants come and go, other lights go off and on, but Benny’s window, of course, remained dark. After a long time, he started the ignition and turned the car home.

By the time he got back, he had a plan of action. He was going to quietly investigate the FBI’s allegations about his father. Their telephone spokesman might be a prize shit, but whoever he was, he was right about one thing… That nasty, filthy story about Pa was the kind of thing Ray could easily check up on. He couldn’t figure out why that hadn’t occurred to him sooner. Maybe he was a coward… maybe he’d been scared to look, for fear of what he’d find. But he had no choice now. He’d look into it, he had to… And if what they were saying was true, well then…

_Well. I'll deal with it. Like I dealt with every other shitty thing Pa ever did._

Part of him was still scrabbling to avoid the issue though. ‘They’re the goddamned FBI, they could plant the evidence,’ that voice told him. But, although the FBI were good, he knew they weren’t that good. True, they might be able to manipulate public documents, but they wouldn’t be able to alter everything… physical evidence, the memories of his family, their friends. So… it was possible that his parents really had kept this secret from him for all these years, certainly possible that his father kept an even bigger secret from Ma… But there must be an objective fact out there somewhere. An independent witness… somebody must have known something at the time. Nearly four decades deep, but at least one of his relatives must have some… clue. Something to prove to him, one way or the other what the hell had actually happened.

The first thing he had to do, obviously, was look at birth and death certificates, from the day that he was born. Easy enough to find those records. He’d do that once the offices opened in the morning. Nothing he could do until then…

He pushed his way through into the darkened hall, and ran into Ma.

Should have expected it. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d waited up for him past midnight. _At least this time I don't have a hickey…_

“Hey, Ma,” he said, resigned to the inevitable. “You didn’t have to wait for me.” Part of him wanted to argue with her, remind her that he was nearer forty than five… but right now, he felt about one hundred.

Ma put her hand around his elbow, and marched him into the ‘company’ living room. _Jeez,_ he thought, and nearly laughed. _Nothing changes. What’s she gonna do, ground me?_

“Sit down, Raimondo,” she said. “We need to talk.”

 _Oh God._ “You’re as bad as Frannie,” he muttered, disrespectful, but slumping onto the good couch, obedient as always. 

“Frannie has a point, baby boy,” Ma said. “Something’s been off with you for days.”

Ray winced at her ‘bambinoing’ him, but it was just her way. “It’s nothing… I mean… not nothing.” He couldn’t lie to her. Instead he told one of those truths that was a lie. “It’s… a tough case at work.”

Ma sank into an armchair with a sigh. “Tell me about it,” she said. This was her tone that brooked no argument, not a request but an authoritative maternal command. Ray shifted on the plastic dustsheet, unable to meet her eyes. He hated this room. It was always too clean, except for that old, faded rug, with the patch that Ma’s knees had worn bald through years of prayer. Instead of replying he found himself staring at the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Why Ma thought that was a suitable picture for guests, he had no idea. Oh, they had other sacred pictures in the house, but this one… this one had always upset him, even when he was too young to know what it meant. There the guy was… the Big Guy, with the heart peeled out of His chest, hovering on display like a slab of meat.

“Raimondo?”

He blinked. Ma was speaking.

“Raimondo, are you alright?”

“Jeez, Ma.” He shook himself, trying to pay attention to the real world. “Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Raimondo,” she said, firmly. “Look at me.”

He looked.

“People keep asking how you are, Son, because you’re not alright.”

Ray squirmed, and protested. “I’m fine…”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Ma…” His hands clenched on his lap. “I’m not lying…”

“You’re not telling the truth.”

He shut his eyes. She knew him too well.

“Ma, what do you want me to say?”

“Just tell me what’s bothering you. The truth.”

He smiled at her. Not sarcastically, not bitterly. A real smile, a happy warm smile bubbled up in him, unexpectedly. Because… wasn’t that just like Ma? That was his mother, through and through. All she wanted was ‘the Truth.’ She never expected anything easy from any of her kids, always did expect the impossible. If Pa put them down, she’d pat them on the shoulder, and tell them, ‘never mind your father.’ The teachers put them down, ‘never mind the teachers.’ The whole damn world put them down, and there was Ma with the flag furled out, banner flying in the wind: ‘never mind the world.’

 _God love Ma,_ he thought, with a rush of affection. _She's got no idea what she's asking…_

“Why don’t you tell me what’s wrong, Caro?”

What could he tell her? ‘Your husband kept secrets, abused your trust in the worst possible way, a way that I would never in a million years have imagined. He destroyed your family, sold his soul for a fistful of silver, and allowed your heart to break.’ He couldn’t tell her that. He looked up at the eviscerated Christ on the wall, and shuddered. If he told Ma all of that, it would tear the poor heart out of her, all over again.

Or, perhaps he could tell her the other terrible truth that had been scrabbling in his brain ever since he’d seen the scaffolding at St Luke’s, ever since they’d sat together watching meerkats on the Discovery Channel, Saturday evening, when all the kids were asleep.

‘Hey, Ma,’ he imagined himself saying, ‘you remember Father Curry? Remember feeding him coffee and biscotti in this room? Remember kneeling with him on that rug to say your prayers? Well, did I ever tell you about the penances he set me on a Saturday afternoon, when you were working extra shifts at Jewel, and Pa was playing pool at Fanelli’s?’

_No._

He couldn’t tell her that either.

She was still watching him.

“Son,” she said gently, “you know you could tell me anything.”

His heart was too big for his chest. He reached forward, took her hands in his, and kissed her fingers.

“Ma,” he said, and his voice broke. “Ma, I love you, but…” 

“But what?”

“I can’t, Ma. I can’t tell you.”

Painful as it was, that was the only truth he could share.

“You know there’s nothing,” she said, her accent slipping, “nothing you could say, or do, or have done to you, that would ever stop me loving you? You know that, don’t you?”

“Ma,” he raised her hand to his lips again, touched her knuckles to his mouth. “If there’s one thing on God’s earth that I do know, that’s it. Don’t ever think… never think I don’t trust you. If I could tell you, I would. But…” He reached out a hand and brushed her cheek, tenderly. “Some things we have to keep secret. You know that. Some truths, we all keep to ourselves.”

As he said it, he saw a flicker of pain behind her face… recognition, perhaps. An acknowledgement that she knew what he was talking about. _Oh, God,_ he thought, and blinked back tears. Splinters in his eyes. _It’s true. All of it. What the FBI said, what Agent Cash said. What Pa did. It’s true._

Ma had her own secrets, her own hurts. Her own truths that she’d never told him. Lies that had been told to her. Truths that she had never known, never now could know.

“Ma.” He slid off the couch, and knelt by her chair. “Don’t be sad. It’s not… it’s not your fault.”

Oh, holy Jesus, she was crying. He pulled her into his arms. “Ma, Ma, it’s alright. Honest to God, it’s gonna be okay.”

“I know, Son. I know.”

He squeezed her tighter in the hug, and Ma, being Ma, pulled herself together quickly. 

“It’s alright, Raimondo,” she said, laughing a little, and patting his head. “You can let go now.” 

“Yeah?”

“Time for all good people to be in bed anyway. You have work in the morning.”

Work, he thought. Oh yeah, he had work to do in the morning. He wondered what answers he’d find.


	3. Chapter 3

Outside, the storm was raging. The rain slapped against the windows hard enough to rattle the glass. Even in the bowels of the bullpen you could hear it, and the room looked grey. Ray squelched to his desk, scowling at his shoes. His fault they were ruined, of course. He should have brought an umbrella. He was so used to Benny destroying his clothes that he'd forgotten he could manage it just fine, all by himself. Well, at least nobody had tried to shoot him, and he hadn't landed in a dumpster yet. The day could be worse...

 

"Jeez," he muttered at his wet feet. "Can't wait till Benny gets back."

 

Because, even though he complained about the outlandish cases, the ruined suits, and wolf hair on the back of his Riviera, he really missed the madness. Innocent madness. Not this FBI shit.

 

He stared at the phone. Last time he’d tried ringing Canada, Benny’d been off, doing something hair brained and hilariously Mountie. Not that the woman he’d spoken to had told him much. Just, “the Constable can’t be reached.” Yeah… Ray could just imagine. Benny'd not even been gone all that long.

_God_ , Ray thought, _I’m an idiot_. _I should have told him about the FBI crap when they first came knocking._

 

He shook his head. He’d had a chance to talk to Benny before his so called ‘vacation’ in Canada, but the timing never seemed right. Ray had a good idea what Benny was doing on holiday. He wouldn't be fishing, or camping out like a normal guy. He wouldn’t be out romancing beautiful ladies (though God knows he could have anyone he wanted). He wouldn’t be watching a ballgame, or even curling. Nah. He'd be doing something insane. Something Benny. Last time they'd been in Canada together, there had been that plane crash. This time Benny'd probably sunk a submarine or something.  Stopped World War Three - or started it. Arrested Santa for driving the reindeer drunk.

 

Despite himself, Ray smiled. _Just once,_ he thought hopefully, please God, _just once let Benny be having fun_. And fun, for the Mountie, was chasing bad guys. Well, when he got back he'd no doubt tell Ray all about it and pretend to be very solemn and bemused while his friend laughed his ass off.

 

With a sigh, Ray settled behind his desk and toed his way out of his sodden shoes. Crying out loud… he was soaked to the skin.  Well, he’d finally found one advantage of riding desk: he could hide his feet while his socks dried out.

_Okay,_ he told himself, firmly. _You can stop putting it off now. You have a job to do._

 

It was early, and when he put his call through to the County Clerk’s office, the phone was picked up on the second ring.

 

“Er, hi,” he said, and took a sip of tarlike coffee, just to wet his mouth. It was acid on his empty stomach. His tongue felt like sandpaper, as though everything in him had dried in an attempt to stop himself from asking the killer question.

 

 Too late now. There was no other way past this, just through.

 

“I’m with the Chicago PD, checking into a cold case we have here. Are you able to check records on birth, death certificates about thirty six years ago?”

 

“Yeah, of course. It’ll take a while to find it though. When do you need it by?”

 

“Well, as soon as possible, please.”

 

“Okay… what’s your name, Sir, for when I get back to you?”

 

Shit. That was gonna be fun… He couldn’t give his name as Vecchio, or the woman would realise it was a personal call the minute he gave her the information he was looking into.

 

“Fraser,” he said. “Benton Fraser. When you call, just ask to be put through to either me, or my partner.”

 

“Sure thing.”

 

“And, er… this is kind of a sensitive case, best if you don’t mention it to anyone else.”

 

“Certainly, Sir.” The woman’s voice was bright and cheerful, sounding happy to be of service in an important investigation. He tried to picture her… she sounded young. Maybe her first job after college, working records, admin. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Probably hadn’t realised yet just how shitty the world really was.

 

“Thank you,” he said, sincerely. “So, I should be at my desk all day. You’re a real help.”

 

“Sir?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“The name? For the certificates you want me to find.”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” He swallowed again, his mouth still far too dry. “I’m looking for births and deaths, nineteen sixty. Erm… March ninth.” His own birthday. Christ. “You know, better check other dates around the same time as well. I’m not sure when… if…” He sucked in a breath. “Not sure when the death was.”

 

“The name, Sir?”

 

Yeah. The name.

 

“Vecchio.”

~*~

 

The rest of the day crawled. Since Fraser was away for the next few weeks, nothing exciting was happening. Lieutenant Welsh obviously knew he was off his game, so here he was, writing up reports on drunk and disorderlies, smash-and-grabs.  So, here he was, catching up on paperwork. It was a weird feeling, as though he’d fallen back through a crack in time to the pre-Benny days. Back to the days after he’d lost his last partner, when just turning up to work every day seemed like too much bother. He sighed, and tapped his pen, beating a little rhythm on the desk. He wasn’t normally the kind to fidget, but today, well… today it was hard to sit still. Hard, but he had to do it… had to stay near the phone. He’d taken several calls already, and each time his heart wanted to climb up his throat with the panic.

 

But… damn. He really needed to go the bathroom. That’s what he got for drinking so much coffee… A full bladder and a case of the jitters. Perfect…

 

The phone rang, just as he’d decided to make a dash for the bathroom. He was already on his feet, but snatched the handset, hooked it between his shoulder and his chin.

 

“Twenty Seventh,” he said. First time he’d picked up the phone he’d added, as usual, “Detective Vecchio,” realizing as soon as he’d done so that, if it had been the call he was waiting for he’d have given the game away. This time he managed to stop himself from blurting it out. The Feds had got him to do undercover after all… He bit the inside of his cheek to stop a slightly panicked laugh. Here he was, undercover as Benny.

 

“Is that Detective Fraser,” came the cheery voice of the woman he’d spoken to earlier.

 

“Er… yeah. That’s me. You got the information?”

 

“I did,” she said, sounding distinctly pleased with herself. “Had to go to the basement to get it, and you wouldn’t believe where they’d put the filing cabinet…”

 

“Yeah, yeah. So… what did you find?”

 

“Oh. Sorry. Of course. Well, you asked for birth or death certificates in the name of Vecchio on or around the ninth of March, nineteen sixty?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Well, it’s really interesting. Kinda sad, too. I got both: birth and death.”  She paused, as though waiting for him to congratulate her. After a brief silence, she cleared her throat and continued.  “Two birth certificates, one death certificate.”

 

The room was spinning, and Ray sank back into his chair, distantly aware that he was struggling to breathe.

 

“Twins,” the woman said. “Twin boy. A Raimondo Vecchio, he was the one who survived. His brother was born twenty minutes later. But, you know... Like I said, it’s really sad. His brother died.”

 

“Died?” Ray’s voice was a distant whisper, but the enthusiastic woman on the other side of the phone didn’t seem to notice. Even the people in the room around him didn’t seem to notice he was falling apart.

 

“Yeah, lived about ten minutes.”

 

“What… what was his name? The dead… the dead twin.”

 

“Doesn’t say,” the woman said. “Just, ‘boy, Vecchio, deceased.’”

 

“What did he die of?”

 

“Just says that he stopped breathing.”

 

Ray closed his eyes. The room was spinning.  He brought his hand up to his face, pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to fight the giddiness. Focus, he told himself. Focus…

 

“I’ll need copies,” he said, forcing himself to sound calm, trying to be practical.

 

“Certainly, Sir, I’ll fax them right over.”

 

Fax… he couldn’t have her faxing them. Elaine was on duty today… she’d see them, realize that… She’d realize that… Shit.

 

She’d realize that the dead baby was his brother.

 

Oh, Jesus Christ. The FBI had been telling the truth.

 

“I’ll come pick ‘em up,” he said, weakly. “Thanks.”

 

“Michelle,” she said, her voice still smiley. “And you’re very welcome.”

 

“Michelle. Thanks. I’ll… uh…”

 

He clicked the phone down, midsentence, too upset to finish the conversation.

 

The room was still spinning. He stared at the wall until it settled.

 

He’d discovered that Pa was a worse shit than he’d ever imagined, that all the adults around him as a child had kept secrets from him, his grandparents, his uncles and aunts… even his Ma, and that the FBI were not only messing with his head, they were also telling the truth.

 

God in heaven.

 

If it hadn’t been for his bladder, he would probably have sat there till he put roots through the floor… or at least till someone spoke to him. But nobody noticed him sitting there like a statue. In the end, he pushed back his chair, slipped into his still damp shoes, and hauled himself to his feet. The world might be falling down around his head, but a man still needed to piss.

 

It was almost funny, he thought, standing at the sink, washing his hands afterward. These big terrible things happen and nothing changes. No dramatic music, no dramatic anything. Your whole world turns inside out and nobody sees it. He wondered how many other people went through life with huge fucking holes in their chests. He made a scornful noise at his self-pity, and splashed his face with water.

 

For God's sake. Ma had it far worse than he did.  She walked around day in, day out, and nobody would have guessed she’d lost a child. He hadn’t known. None of them did. He scraped a paper towel over his face to dry it, crumpled the sodden mess, and threw it in the trash. If the FBI were right…

 

Hell. Who was he kidding? They _were_ right.

 

Ray braced himself, gripping the porcelain of the sink, and took a long hard look at the man in the mirror. His flesh crawled. Armando Langoustini, he thought. That’s not just my face… it’s the face of Armando Langoustini.

 

He had to process this somehow. Get his head straight… God Almighty, he wanted to talk to Benny. But maybe… he didn’t even know if he _could_ talk to Benny about this one. This felt worse, far worse, than anything else that had happened to him as a child. Worse than Pa beating him, worse even than what Father Curry had made him do. That man hadn’t been family. He was just another pervert betraying a child. But his own father… his father had done something more… terrible. Something so ugly there wasn’t even a word for it.

_How the hell_ , Ray asked himself, _how the hell am I going to get my head wrapped round this?_

 

Police report, he thought. How would you tell this story if it was in a police report?

 

‘On March the ninth, nineteen sixty, Sophia Vecchio gave birth to twin boys,’ he narrated in his head, as dispassionately as he could. ‘Both boys were born healthy, but…’ A surge of nausea rose in him, cold, and he closed his eyes. ‘But the father, Giuseppe Vecchio, took one of his babies, and sold him.’

 

“Sold him,” he said, aloud, opening his eyes again, and looking back at his reflection. The dry recitation continued in his head. ‘The father told his wife that her baby had died, and they buried an empty coffin. She never saw the body. Nobody in the family ever spoke of it again, and the surviving boy never realized that he’d had a twin.’

 

 _Oh shit,_ he thought, and it suddenly hit him, like a hammer to the chest. All at once it was real, utterly, appallingly real.

 

‘Pa took my brother, and sold him to the Mob. He sold his son to the goddamned Mob. Told Ma that he’d died, let her suffer that grief all those years. And for what? To pay off gambling debts? Was that it? The price of his son’s life, my brother’s life...’

 

“Bastard,” he whispered, appalled. “Fucking bastard.”

 

“What kinda way is that to speak about your father?”

 

Ray spun on his heel, hand flattened against his chest, and pressed himself up against the tiled walls, heart fluttering wildly behind his ribs.

 

There he stood, the Old Man.

 

“Missed me?”

 

The hated ghost lounged by the urinals, casually, as though he owned the place.  _Yeah, king of piss and wind,_ Ray thought, and felt something bitter twisting in his heart. “If you weren’t dead,” he ground out, “I’d kill you myself.”

 

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Pa said, and Ray saw the incorporeal fingers curling into fists. “You think you’re so special, now that you’re a cop…”

 

“No, Pop,” he said, tightly. “I just think I’m human. I got no fucking clue what you are. Now, get outta my way.”

 

The figure flinched as Ray walked past it, and Ray’s lips thinned into a grim smile. “Scared?” It gave him a nasty frisson of satisfaction.

 

“Hey, I’m not scared of nothing,” the ghost blustered. “Not you. You always were a little cry-baby… Mommy’s boy. Look at you, loser. At least one of my sons made something of himself. Armando…”

 

“You don’t get to say his name,” Ray snarled. “You didn’t even bother to give him a name, so just... Don’t say his name like he’s your son. He wasn’t your son, he was just a piece of meat to you. You sold him to the highest bidder, for fuck’s sake. For the love of God... you’re even worse than the Mob. They’re the ones who raised him as a son, and called him Armando. You… you’re just… you’re the damn sperm donor.”

 

Pa squared up against him, blocking the door. “He’s my son, more my son than you ever were. What, you think I did a bad thing letting the Family take him? I did a favour for everyone… Langoustini needed an heir. You got any idea what woulda happened to the first Bookman if the Iguana family realized he was shooting blanks? Nobody would take a man like that seriously. I saved that man’s life, and don’t you forget it. Ricardo Langoustini was glad to have a son, and he raised him right.”

 

“Raised him right?” Ray stared at his father, slightly hysterical. “Pop, hate to break your bubble, but Armando’s a fucking criminal.”

 

“Criminal? Take a good look at your brother. He’s a man with respect, money, a position in society.”

 

“God! What the hell goes on in that head of yours? He's being investigated by the FBI. He’s gonna spend the rest of his life in prison.”

 

“He’s a man,” Pa said, scornfully, “unlike you. He’s made something of himself. Look at you, you’re nothing. Thirty-six years old, and you’re still living with your mother, no woman of your own, no children, nothing.”

 

Ray stared at his father, speechless. He used to think he hated the man. When he was a kid, he prayed that God would forgive him for that. When he was an adult, he buried it, tried to deny it. Because no matter how hard he had hated his Pa, he loved him just as much. But now…

 

If he thought he’d hated him before, it was nothing compared to the feeling in him now. He was shocked past shame at the strength of his hatred. He used to fear this man, flinch from his anger, hunger for his praise. He’d lived in such shadows, all his life, felt so inadequate, so small.

 

His father stood before him now, a hateful, petty, gibbering thing. Unbelievable. And even knowing the kind of man he was, Ray still couldn’t escape him. He was dead, for God’s sake, but… he was standing over there.

 

Ray hunched his hands into his pockets, shook his head. No point even talking to the ghost. Never did listen, not when he was alive, and not now that he was dead. He was standing in the men’s room, talking to a ghost.

_Shit, what if someone heard me?_

 

‘I have to get out of here,’ he thought. Ray looked past the figure, and shouldered his way out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind him. Despite himself, he glanced over his shoulder. Even after all these years, he half expected the old man to come out after an argument and hit him from behind.

 

Pa hadn’t hit him since he was sixteen years old and could finally defend himself. The old man was dead, and would never hit him again, but…

_Holy God,_ Ray thought. _I’m still scared of him._

 

His father wasn’t there.

 

Ray sucked in air, and it felt like cool water on a hot day, as though he’d been holding his breath too long. He had a chest cold, or something. It hurt to breathe. “Pull yourself together,” he muttered. He still had things to do. He had to get downtown to the clerk's office, get hold of those documents, all in his lunch break. And then… and then…

 

Then he had no idea what the hell he was going to do.

~*~

 

Michelle proved to be very much as Ray had imagined her. Blonde, petite, a scattering of freckles across a snub nose. Early twenties, and full of fizz, like an Anglo-Saxon version of Frannie, if Frannie didn’t have old hurts lurking behind her eyes. The young woman had a pixie face, a sweet, very enthusiastic smile. Not something he was used to, in police work, meeting someone who was delighted to see him… high point of her day, he thought, helping the police. If only the rest of the public were so helpful.

 

He flashed his badge, quickly, with his thumb slightly obscuring his name, so that she would see the shield and his photo, nothing else.

 

“Detective Fraser?” She grinned, puckishly, and he found himself automatically grinning back. She was way too young for him, even if she hadn’t reminded him of his sister, but he wasn’t immune to it when a pretty girl smiled.

 

“Yeah,” he lied. “That’s me. You got those documents?”

 

“Yes, Sir. Here they are. I did some photocopies for you as well.” She hovered, still smiling. “Is it an important case?”

 

Ray looked at her, and saw her face sadden for a moment. It looked odd on her, like her face wasn’t used to sadness. Then he realised – she was responding to whatever she could see in his own face. He must be broadcasting on all channels to get through to such a bubbly character.

 

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it’s important.”

 

“Is there anything else I can do to help? I mean, I always thought I’d be good at this kind of thing, if that’s any use. I always guess who the bad guy is on crime shows…”

 

Ray looked up at her, blinked hard, startled by the naivety of her comment. Jeez, she was young. She mistook his surprise for encouragement. “I could do some research for you. I’d love to work with the police someday.”

 

“You’d make a great civilian aide,” he said, on autopilot, looking at the papers. She might seem a little bit dippy, and might think _Law and Order_ was some kind of documentary, but she had done a good job. Clean photocopies, neat handwritten notes, detailing where she’d found them… what time, etc. He’d noticed her inbox and outbox as he came in. Inbox nearly empty, outbox nearly full. Everything on her desk was tidy, paperwork obviously in order. Better than his desk. And she was friendly, he thought, she’d make members of the public feel right at home.

 

“You think so, Sir?” She brightened up again. “A civilian aide? I’d love that.”

 

“Yeah,” he said, absently. “There’s a few jobs coming available. You just missed one at the twenty seventh, but you could send your resumé to the eighteenth.” After all, if Frannie could get a job as a C.A, then surely this young Michelle could.

 

Ray blinked again. He’d completely forgotten… Frannie was starting work at the precinct in… what… a month or two. He shook his head. That was going to be fun… working with Frannie.

 

He was doing it again, he realized. What Benny called ‘blithering’ in his head. Trying not to think about… the things he had to think about.

 

Okay. He shook himself, and looked at the documents.

 

His birth certificate he had seen before, of course. The other certificate was nearly identical. Names and ages of parents, their address… That was when Ma and Pa lived above the Rossi’s shop. He and Armando had been born there. And there, in the clerk’s faded handwriting, his father’s profession. Pa was working the docks back then. What'd he do to put an end to his stint on the docks that time? Maybe he had turned up drunk or hung over or…maybe, one morning, he just didn't turn up at all. Maybe he’d started a fight, or lifted some bills from the office. Who knew? It was always the same. Give it three months at most, and he’d be out on his ass again. He’d get around to finding something else when the money ran out. Oh yeah, he could find work, when he could be bothered, and when he did work, he worked his nuts off, whether the work was legit or off the books. Famine or feast with Pa. Always had been.

 

Okay. He rolled his tongue in his mouth, trying to gather spit so that he could swallow. This was it…

 

And there it was in front of him. Finally. Proof of his father’s greatest betrayal. Black and white:

 

‘Boy, Vecchio. Time of birth, six thirty five am.’

 

And now the next certificate. The death certificate… Jesus Christ:

 

‘Boy, Vecchio. Time of death, six forty-five am.’

 

The sheet of paper was shaking violently in his hand.

 

“Sir? Are you alright, Sir?”

 

“Yeah,” Ray whispered. “Yeah, sorry kid. I’m fine.”

 

“I… er…” she blushed. “I took the liberty of… well… I did some more research. I hope you don’t mind…”

 

“What’s this?” More papers.

 

“Well, this is the notice in the papers, births and deaths and so on. I tried to track down the doctor who signed the death certificate, but he’s been dead some years. And this is the announcement of the funeral. This," she tapped the page, "is the number of the plot where he was buried.”

 

Wow. She’d done her job right, that was for sure. He knew there had been a funeral, the FBI had told him that… And he knew his brother wasn’t really buried there at all. But there was a grave.

 

Fuck. There was a grave…

 

“I thought you’d want it for if you needed an autopsy. You think he was murdered? Sometimes it’s the Mom…”

 

Ray stared at her, dizzy with shock. Of course she’d think that. “No,” his voice came out strangled. “Not the Mom.”

 

“Oh.” She nodded sagely. “The Dad then.”

 

“Thanks, Michelle,” he said, changing the subject. He forced a smile as he slid the papers into their manila envelope. “You’re a star.”

 

She beamed.

 

“I gotta… I gotta go.”

 

“Is there anything else I can do,” she asked wistfully.

 

“You’ve done more than enough.”

 

“Would you… uhm. Would you like to meet up for a coffee sometime?” She was blushing even harder now. For a moment he was puzzled, then he realized with a shock that she was actually coming onto him. Wow, so this was how Benny felt. Poor kid… she probably still had her teddy bear on her bed. Jeez, she reminded him of Frannie… “Nah,” he said, to let her down kindly. “My wife wouldn’t like it.”

 

He’d spent his whole life lying, he realized, as he left her office. Lying and being lied to. Why should today be any different?


	4. Chapter 4

****

The children’s graveyard.

 

Last time he’d been here was the funeral of Dorothy Malone. Eight months old, she’d been murdered by her mother’s boyfriend. Ray hadn’t planned to go to the funeral. Every cop knew that you should never get personally involved in cases. But then, Dorothy’s mother visited the station, telling everyone how grateful she was that he’d solved the case and put the bastard baby killer away. How could he not go after that?

 

Nobody envied him when he left the station house. The only man in attendance, beside the priest, he stood with the family by the side of the grave, watching the women cry as Dorothy was put into the ground. A few months later, Dorothy’s mother followed her daughter. An overdose. He never asked whether it was deliberate or not. She was buried somewhere nearby. Her name was Ann.

 

They'd been selling flowers at the gate, fundraising for a dialyses machine. Ray folded some bills into the tin, and took his offering. Stopped by Dorothy's grave, laid down a single rose. Little white bud.

 

_Sleep well, Princess._

 

And then, in amongst the mud and trampled weeds, a long way back amongst the lonely, mainly forgotten graves, he found the place. How many times had Ray been at this cemetery, and never known about this tiny patch of earth?

 

It was an old grave, he thought, looking down at it. As old as him, minus a few days. The headstone was weathered, but someone kept it clean. No moss on the grey stone and the little plot was weeded. The grave was hemmed in with a white picket fence, as though it was a garden. One look told him someone tended to the plot.

 

_Ma still visits here._

 

Fresh flowers and some toys. A little toy car, protected from the weather by a little glass box. He stared at it numbly. A Buick Riviera. She must have thought that if he’d lived he’d have been like Ray, that they’d have liked the same things. He stooped, lifted the case, and removed the toy. It was cold in his hands, muddy underneath, rusted up a little, but Ma had done her best to keep it clean. He wondered how long it had been there, what year it had been.

 

He’d had a toy like this… hell, he still had a toy like this, hidden on a top shelf in his closet, where Maria’s kids couldn’t break it. Ma bought it for one of his - no, one of _their_ \- birthdays. She hadn’t been able to get him a green one, so he sat and painted it with Maria’s funkiest nail polish. Armando’s car was still blue. Ma had put newspaper on the kitchen table, he remembered now, and kissed his head. “Happy birthday, Raimondo.”

 

He returned the blue Buick to its case, gently putting it back where Ma had left it.

 

There was a name on the headstone and one date. Giuseppe, she had called him, in the end. Called him after their father. Her husband who, through thick and thin, she’d loved. And the loveless fucking bastard did that to her… What did it tell him, Ray thought, that he hated the name Giuseppe even more than Armando? He put his hand on the stone, traced the carved letters. _Could have been me,_ he thought. Why did Pa pick one baby, rather than the other? Was he only spared because he’d been twenty minutes older, the firstborn son? If Armando had been been born first, would Ray have been sold to the Langoustinis, would he be the Bookman today? Would Armando be a Chicago cop?

 

He couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t imagine living the life Armando did. Couldn’t imagine killing people for money…

 

Oh, he could imagine killing. He had killed, in fact, in the line of duty. Each time, he had been cleared by the review board. In another world, he might have killed Victoria. He’d wanted to... still did, for all that she put Benny through. And Pa… if he’d known of this when Pa was alive, God knows what he’d have done. The old man was buried in this graveyard. Ray shook with the desire to do… something. Dig the bastard up, set fire to the bones. Anything to punish his father for what the hell he’d put Ma through. Perhaps that was how Armando got started… avenging a wrong done to someone he loved. How much was the Bookman his brother? Was he fiercely loyal to his family and friends? One thing Ray knew, he didn’t want to leave his own family at any price, couldn’t imagine doing this job for the FBI. A man was supposed to protect his family, provide for his own. Was that how strongly Armando felt about the Langoustinis? They had raised him, after all. If Armando thought they were truly his blood, then perhaps…

 

_I must be losing my mind, making excuses for a murderer._

 

Ray stared at the little patch of garden his mother had been tending, all these years. Three decades and then some. He could see the funeral as clearly as if he’d been there. Perhaps he had been at the funeral, although he couldn’t remember. 

 

He couldn’t remember, but he saw it anyway. Ma crying behind black lace, Nonna Esposito comforting her while the earth closed over the coffin like a mouth. Pa… would he have turned up? He couldn’t see Pa in his head. He would probably have been there, playing the grieving father for sympathy. Probably gone to a bar afterward, rolled home drunk. Even knowing that, Ray couldn’t imagine the man having been there at his mother’s side. Pa was always just an absence at Ma’s shoulder. A ghost, even then.

 

The little white box. They’d put it in the ground, a little white box weighted down with… What… a couple of bricks? A bag of flour? What would weigh the same as a newborn baby?

 

Maybe Ma was still standing there, always would be. She’d been coming back for years, grieving a son who wasn’t even dead.

 

 _No. He’s not dead,_ Ray told himself firmly, shaking himself from his trance. _And he’s not an innocent baby anymore. He’s a monster, Armando ‘the Bookman’ Langoustini, a murderer. A criminal._

 

So, why did he feel like he’d just lost his brother? Why did it feel like someone really had just died?

 

_Ah, Christ._

 

His shoes were wet, the grass still sodden from the morning’s downpour. Last week's snow remained in patches, washed down to mucky slush. He knelt anyway. Mud oozed through the legs of his trousers, but he barely noticed. He wasn’t praying. He had no idea who to pray to, or what about. But there was a huge weight, pressing on his shoulders, a ring of iron constricting his chest, and it was just too much trouble to stand.

 

 _Santa Maria,_ he thought. _I wonder how many times Ma has knelt here and said her prayers._

 

He couldn’t pray to _La Beata Vergine_ , because the Blessed Virgin hadn’t listened to Ma. Couldn’t pray to his namesake, or any saint, for the same reason. He finally understood why Ma had named him for a Spanish saint. He’d been born nowhere near the feast day, there were no other Raymonds in the family, but Raymond Nonnatus was the patron saint of childbirth. Ma must have wanted to be sure she’d never lose a child again. He couldn’t pray to the Father either, because ‘father’ had become such a filthy word.

 

 _Jesus,_ he thought, out of the blue. _Jesus wept._ He barked out a laugh at that, fiercely scrubbing the tears from his own eyes. What could he possibly say to Jesus?

 

 _Look after my family,_ he thought, hopelessly. _Don’t let my Ma ever know._

 

That was all he could think of. He pushed himself up from his knees, turned from the empty grave, and walked back to his car.

 

He’d have to phone in sick, he thought. Welsh had been watching him like a hawk, telling him to take some days off… now he had no choice. He knew for a fact that he couldn’t do anymore work today.

~*~

 

For once, the house was empty. Ma was grocery shopping, the children were all at school. Tony would be at work, Maria would be visiting the mother and baby group. Frannie was probably at the library, studying up for whatever module they were doing at the community college right now. Either that, or she was buying new clothes for the new job.

 

_Thank God I've got the place to myself._

 

He sat on the stairs, peeled off his shoes and socks, and waited for the phone to ring.

 

Ten minutes later, it did.

 

“So, Detective Vecchio,” said the voice. “Have you learned anything from your investigation?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, wearily. “Yeah, I have.”

 

“So, are you ready to talk?”

 

“What’s there to talk about? My father was a shit.”

 

“Yes,” the voice said, coolly. “Yes, he was. And your brother is a murderer. I would have thought that a man like you, who believes in justice and the rule of law would like to do whatever he could to atone for his family’s crimes.”

 

Ray didn’t have it in him to get angry. Figured they’d try to play on guilt, even though he wasn’t Pa, he wasn’t Armando. He could tell them that, argue, but what was the point? They knew it anyway, and they’d just come at him with something else. He sat there with the phone to his head, bone-tired, and said nothing.

 

“We’ll meet, tomorrow,” the voice informed him.

 

“Yeah.” He sighed. Not much point fighting it. He wouldn’t do what they wanted, but he’d have to meet them face-to-face. They’d never leave him alone otherwise.

 

“Good. Well then,” the voice sounded magnanimous. “I’ll let you chose the place.”

 

“St Luke’s,” Ray heard himself say. He should have been disgusted with himself, but it seemed the only choice. “After the builders have finished for the day. You’ll have to go round the back, bring a key.” He laughed. “I’m sure you can get a key.”

 

“St Luke’s. We'll see you at six.”

 

He sat in the empty hall, staring at his chilled bare feet, the muddy knees of his suit, and smiled. He was going to go to St Luke’s, and do something he should have done nearly thirty years ago.

 

He was going to say ‘no.’

~*~                                                              

 

They sent Agent Cash. The man arrived by himself, dressed casually in jeans, though there was no mistaking him for anything other than a Fed. He wasn’t alone though. Ray knew better than that. The guy was obviously going to be wearing a wire, and equally obviously his colleagues would be sitting somewhere nearby, listening in. It was the first time Ray had seen the man without a suit, first time he’d seen him without his bosses sitting in the room.

 

 _Jeez, what was I thinking, meeting him this close to home?_ Still… nobody saw them as they let themselves in through the back of the church.

 

The place hadn’t changed as much as he’d expected. The roof had leaked by the Marian altar, and there were sheets over some of the pews. The door swung loose on the confessional where he had first gone to Father Curry for help. No little candles glittered by the statue of St Luke, but the evangelist stood there, as always, overlooking them. When he was nine or ten years old, Ray had nightmares that the statue was alive. At night it would write down what it had seen and heard on its unfurled scroll, but in the day, it simply stood, and chose to do nothing. Ray would dream that his name was written in that book, with Father Curry listed as his accomplice, and that one day God would see it, and…

 

Ray shoved his hands in his pockets. Stupid dreams.

 

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

 

Agent Cash turned, smiling. He actually looked like a decent guy, if you didn’t know he was a Fed. If you saw him in the street you’d peg him as a military type, but you wouldn’t know he was a manipulative, evil bastard. Nah… he looked wholesome. A farm boy, maybe, or the kid next door. Not next to any door Ray had ever lived behind, of course. Too comfortable and clean-cut for that. Like Benny, innocent looking, only blond, rounder in the face. He even stood like Benny, sometimes, like he was waiting for someone to tell him to stand down. Not as good looking as Benny, but then, who was?

 

“Well,” the man said, and his tenor voice wasn’t nearly so menacing as that other voice disembodied on the phone. “I thought you might like to reconsider the situation with Armando Langoustini.”

 

“What’s to reconsider? It’s got nothing to do with me.”

 

The agent’s pleasant face crinkled, looking puzzled. _Fuck_ , Ray thought, _I hope they never put him undercover. He’s probably great at threatening people, but he’d be no good at poker._

 

“Detective Vecchio… may I call you Ray?”

 

“You may not.”

 

“Alright then.” The man sighed and his shoulders slumped. Ray would have felt sorry for him if he didn't hate his guts. He looked so dejected. Maybe he was just a good actor, and putting it on. “Detective Vecchio, shall we sit?”

 

Ray shrugged, pushed back a dust cloth, and settled in the pew. Agent Cash sat beside him. Ray slid sideways, put a good few inches between them.

 

“Detective Vecchio,” the man said, urgently, turning toward him. “We’ve tried everything. We’ve been trying to bring down the Iguana family for years now.”

 

Ray said nothing.

 

“I realise that what we’re asking of you is a huge thing.”

 

“You’re asking me to commit suicide,” Ray stated, baldly. “You know what the Mob will do if they realise I'm not Langoustini.”

 

“Yes,” Cash said. “Yes. We do know that. That's why we will help you prepare for the role. We will work out fail safes, we will –”

 

“You will throw me into the lion’s den and see how long it takes them to tear me to pieces.”

 

“I wasn’t aware,” the other man said, frostily, “that you were a coward.”

 

Oh yeah, there it was. For a minute Cash sounded as menacing as the guy on the phone. Maybe he would be good at undercover after all. The Fed’s had tried blackmail, they’d tried guilt, now they had Cash trying to get through to him with macho bullshit and pride.

 

“My mother already lost one son,” Ray said, ignoring the insult. “I don’t want her to lose another.”

 

“She’d still have Paulie.”

 

“Paulie?” Jeez, his kid brother? What was the guy thinking? “Paulie’s in Florida. He talks to her, what… twice a year?”

 

“Listen,” the FBI guy leaned toward him, and put a hand on Ray’s arm. Ray froze, then pulled away, sliding further back along the pew, chest tight. The man sat back, realising he’d gone too far, but kept on talking. “If the worst did happen, your house would be paid for, all benefits would be paid in perpetuity to your mother and -”

 

“She’d lose another son.”

 

“She could lose you anyway. You're a policeman. You’ve been injured on the job several times.”

 

He had a point.

 

_What am I thinking? This isn't happening. I’m not doing it. No. Absolutely not. No fucking way._

 

“If the Iguanas find out,” Ray said, “they’ll torture me. They’ll torture me till I tell them everything, and then they’ll bury me in the desert where nobody will ever find me. It’ll take years to have me declared legally dead, and in the meantime Ma will be sitting in that house, every day, thinking maybe I’m alive out there somewhere, never knowing. That’s the best case scenario. Worst case? They figure out who my family are and go after them. They’ll spend the rest of their life in witness protection. Ma wouldn't live to see my pension.”

 

“We would make sure that didn’t happen. Someone would be watching out for you at all times.”

 

“And what about the rest of them? Who’s gonna pay for it if Vito needs braces, or one of them needs to go to hospital, needs glasses? Tony can’t do it. You think he gets decent insurance the kind of jobs he does?”

 

“We’d look after your family.”

 

“Yeah? Would you pay for school trips? Take ‘em to ballgames?”

 

“We’d provide for them financially. We’re more than generous.”

 

“You’ll have to forgive me, but I don’t trust you.”

 

“Listen, Ra… Detective Vecchio, we’re the good guys. You can trust us.”

 

Ray snorted a laugh. “I got trust issues.”

 

The two men fell silent, and Ray tipped his head back, stared up at the ceiling. _The plaster's cracked,_ he thought.

 

“Detective,” Agent Cash said. “At least think about it.”

 

Ray closed his eyes. His face was hot.

 

He _was_ thinking about it… that was the absolute bitch of the matter. He knew it wasn’t his fault his father had done what he had done. He knew it wasn’t his fault that his brother had become what he’d become. But…

 

Somewhere in the Nevada desert, there were bodies in the sand. People that his brother had ordered hits on. He knew that somewhere in a brothel someone was being prostituted, and his brother was the man who laundered the accounts, made the ‘business’ look legal. What else did the man do? Drugs, certainly. Extortion. Arms dealing.

 

Oh God, this wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t Armando. He couldn’t believe the man was his blood… but then he couldn’t believe Pa was his blood either.

 

“I can’t be responsible for the whole damn world,” Ray said. “I can only look after my family.” (And it struck him, with a shudder, that Armando would say exactly that, if anyone ever dared to ask him ‘why.’)

 

“Detective Vecchio -”

 

“No!” He shouted, clenching his fists. The other man actually flinched, stared at his whitening knuckles. Ray shook his hands out, tried to take a calm breath. Damn, his chest hurt.

 

“No,” he repeated.

 

“Please, listen -”

 

Ray shook his head, cutting the agent off. “You know why I picked this place?”

 

“No…” Cash sounded doubtful, uncertain. “No. I don’t know.”

 

“When I was a kid, there was nobody…” He stalled, started again. “I came here for help, and the guy…”

 

_What the fuck am I doing here anyway? And why am I telling him what happened? He's wearing a wire; God only knows who else is listening._

 

Ray shut his eyes. His skin was prickly, felt too tight, too hot. He hadn’t thought about it for years, and now his whole past was crashing in. If the Feds hadn’t turned his world upside down, he might never have thought of Father Curry again. Not like this. Not out in the open, walking around in his head all the damn time. If it wasn’t for the Feds then the old bastard would still be dead and safely buried, and rotting in his grave. But oh no, the FBI had to come into his life, bullying and threatening, and telling all their filthy little secrets. Digging everything up. Little white boxes, bags of flour. Dirty old men and mouldering bones. _It’s their fucking fault,_ he told himself. And somehow, irrationally, that seemed to make sense. God, it hurt to breathe, suddenly. He wasn’t thinking straight… he knew that. He must be coming down with something…

 

“When I was a kid in this church,” he told the other man, his voice flat and without inflection. “I came to someone for help. And he didn’t help. He made everything worse. I was just some dumb stupid kid, who could I tell? I knew what was happening was wrong, but I couldn’t stop it.” He opened his eyes, levelled a stare at Cash. “He was like you,” he said, viciously, registering the hurt and shock in the other man’s eyes. “Everyone trusted him. He was a good guy; everyone said so. Trust him, they told me. Tell him your sins. So, if he did something wrong, it must have been my fault. And I couldn’t say ‘no.’ Didn’t know how to.” He got to his feet, staring down at the FBI agent, implacably. “Well. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m saying it now. No.”

 

As he stepped into the aisle, the ingrained urge to genuflect froze him for a moment. His right hand was already moving toward his forehead to form the sign of the cross, although the Tabernacle was long empty, the Host long gone. The other man seized his opportunity.

 

“Detective,” Cash made a grab for his free hand, and Ray snatched it back, stepped away, panting. The iron band was squeezing ever tighter around his chest, constricting his breathing. He looked at the farm boy. Kansas, perhaps, some big clean state, with fresh air, and cows, and fields. The man looked desperate. Perhaps, Ray thought, he really wasn’t a bad guy. Just some poor schmuck, a guy like Ray, trying his best to do his job, trying to clean up some little corner of the world.

 

“Don’t touch me,” Ray said. “I’m gone.”

~*~

 

It was just as well he’d called in sick. He was hot, struggling to breathe. Hadn’t properly eaten since… when? And then sitting around wet all day. Oh, stupid, stupid… Now he’d gone and gotten himself really sick. Jeez…

 

He turned his head, looked at the clock. The digits were strobing, stinging his eyes. Maybe the electricity wasn’t working properly. Three minutes past three in the morning.

 

He tried to sit up, but the sheets were tangled around him, and his chest hurt. Really hurt. It was burning, inside. He must have been thrashing in his sleep. Felt like the bed was wet. Fuck… He put the back of his wrist on his forehead. He was sweating like a pig, that’s why the sheets were soaking. He never got sick. Last time he got sick like this…

 

He couldn’t remember the last time he got sick like this, but his ribs had ached then, too. He was a child, not an adult. What had he told people? Basketball? That was it; he'd hurt himself playing basketball. So he said. He cracked his ribs. Yeah, he remembered it now. Remembered how good he was at lying to everyone; so good, in fact, that even Ma never saw through his excuses.

 

Everyone must've thought he was a clumsy kid, always walking into doors or falling down the stairs.

 

The last time he felt like this, his ribs were cracked. The last time and the time before that. Basketball, he said the first time. Then he said he’d fallen down the stairs. That’s what he told Ma. That’s what he told everybody. He cracked his ribs and the cold got into his lungs.

 

Benny’d never forgive him if he knew what a damn liar he was.

 

It had been a long time ago.

 

_Just go back to sleep._

He drifted…

 

 _Son of a bitch._ Pa was at the foot of the bed.

 

“Get out of here,” he said. His voice was crackling. “Leave me alone.”

 

The ghost just stood there and smiled. Ray closed his eyes. When he opened them again Pa was gone. He squeezed his eyes back shut. He was so pathetic… he was sobbing with relief.

 

When he opened his eyes again, Pa was back.

 

No… Not Pa. It was another figure by his bed. The guy looked like…

 

Him. The guy looked like him.

 

“Get out,” he mumbled. He hid his head beneath the pillow, but heat prickled in his face. He looked again at the figure. “Get the fuck out.”

 

Armando stepped forward and sat beside him on the bed.

“Just leave me alone," Ray groaned.

 

Armando put his hand out, touched Ray’s face. Cold mist. Should have made him shudder, but he was so hot, and the coolness of the phantom touch was such a relief. He turned his head toward it, helplessly, and Armando stroked his cheek.

 

Ray looked at him. _Really_ looked.

 

The FBI hadn't lied about the resemblance. It was like looking in the mirror. Except... except... the eyes. Green, like his own, but sadder and somehow darker, too. And...

 

Blood. It should have shocked him, but it didn’t. Seemed like he should have been expecting blood. A burn down the left side of his face, flesh split, flayed back, from the cheekbone to the ear. Looked like the skin had been peeled from a plum. Purple, but pink underneath. And… the chest, Armando’s chest, caved in. His brother’s ribs were broken. They poked through his shirt, little white spikes among the mess of blood. Maybe, Ray thought, maybe that was why he was struggling to breathe. Maybe it wasn’t his ribs that were hurting after all. Maybe it was his brother’s.

 

“What happened,” he asked, touching the cool hand that rested on his face. Armando tilted his hand so they could link fingers, and shook his head silently, stroking Ray’s forehead with the knuckles of his other hand. Ray wondered if the blood on that hand was Armando’s, or that of people he’d had killed. “Can’t you speak?” The ghost sat silent, looking at him with… what? Envy? Grief?

 

The man was a monster. Why couldn’t Ray remember that? He was holding his brother’s hand, looking at the ruin of his face, his chest, and he kept forgetting that the man was a monster.

 

Footsteps outside. Ray looked at the door. His head hurt, and even with Armando’s hands resting on his face he was hot.

 

“Raimondo, are you alright?”

 

What… hang on. Hadn’t this already happened? Only, he hadn’t woken up screaming, so what was Ma doing outside his door?

 

“Fine, Ma, we’re fine,” he said, and was surprised to hear the rattle in his chest. He started coughing. Oh God. He spat up phlegm on the pillow… not good, he thought vaguely. It tasted of metal. Ma was going to be worried. He’d coughed up blood.

 

The door swung open and Ma flipped the switch, instantly flooding the room with bright and blinding light.

 

He snapped his eyes shut. Fuck, that burned. Even his eyes were hot.

 

“Raimondo, you’re not well.” He felt the mattress give as she sat beside him. Her hand touched his forehead, feeling almost as cool as Armando’s against his heated flesh. He opened his eyes, squinting to see them both. Armando was staring at their mother, and he looked… hungry. Lost.

 

“Ma,” Ray said, “it’s alright. He’s here.”

 

“Who is?”

 

He couldn’t remember what she’d called him now. It hadn’t been Armando. And wasn’t there some reason why he shouldn’t be talking to her about this? He couldn’t remember.

 

“Who’s here, Raimondo?”

 

“His hand’s right next to yours. He’s here.”

 

“Who are you talking about?”

 

“I’m sorry… I don’t… I don’t remember what you called him.”

 

Ma was stroking sweat from his head, staring at him with concern.

 

“Who?”

 

“Your son,” he said, “my brother. He’s dead, but it’s okay.”

 

“Dead?” Her eyes widened. “Paulie’s dead?”

 

“No,” he shook his head, and tried to smile comfortingly. He didn’t seem to be doing a good job of it. Ma looked frightened. “No, not Paulie. The, the other one.”

 

She went still. Ray watched, transfixed, as Armando lifted a cold hand to touch their mother’s hair. She shivered.

 

“See, Ma. It’s alright. He’s here.”

 

“Raimondo,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. Sit up. We’ve got to get you to the emergency room.” Her eyes glittered with concern. Ray tried to move. He wanted to please her, but he couldn’t sit up. She wrapped her arms round him, tried to lift him, but he was a dead weight.

 

“S’fine, Ma,” he said, his words sliding into each other. “We’re fine.” He looked back at Armando. He couldn’t quite bring himself to smile. Wasn’t the man a murderer or something?

 

“They want me to be you,” he told Armando, “but I can’t. I’m not going.”

 

Someone must have killed his brother. Ray’s vision was fluttering, losing focus. “Why’d you have to die?”

 

The ghost shook his head, dumbly, and was gone. Ray closed his eyes, and concentrated on breathing.

 

Ma was crying.

 

Ma was gone.

 

Where was she? Oh yes. The phone. She was talking on the phone to… someone.

 

And then she was propping him up with pillows, and patting his head with a damp cloth, putting water to his lips. The water was sweet, and her hand was now as cold as Armando’s had been. He was hurting all over. What happened?

 

Last time his ribs hurt like this…

 

“It was my fault,” he whispered. “Don’t worry, Ma. I fell on the stairs… Pa’ll say sorry in the morning. He didn’t mean to.”

 

“Son, it’s okay. Just wait. The ambulance will be here soon.”

 

Ray struggled, trying again to sit up. Why was the ambulance coming?

 

“Did he hit you?” He was gonna kill Pa this time. “Ma, did he hit you?”

 

“No, son, I’m fine. Just rest. Nobody hit me. It’s fine.”

 

Ray shut his eyes.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

A bird? At first he thought the sharp little chirping sound was a bird, but it was too regular - too mechanical. There was a smell, chemical - a rhythmic hiss. Something on his face.

  
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling uncomprehendingly. What was he in hospital for this time anyway? He didn’t think he’d been shot, or blown up, or nearly drowned, or…

He groaned as consciousness returned. He’d recognise that noise anywhere: the beeping of a heart monitor. He could feel the discomfort of the IV in the back of his left hand. A smell that was not just chemical, but plastic as well.

  
His chest hurt, but he remembered a time when it had hurt worse, years ago. His lungs were tight, the pain familiar, and there was a catch in his breath. It wasn't as bad now, not as bad as it had been.

  
 _Shit._ There really was something on his face. He started tugging at the oxygen mask, panicking. A hand came out to stop him, squeezed reassuringly.  He turned his head and calmed down. Thank God. It was only Maria.

  
“Hey, little bro,” she said. “How you doing?”

 

“You tell me,” he grumbled. “Feels like - ” 

 

He had a sudden flash. Steering wheel in his hands, kids singing in the back. A vanishingly long road shining in the headlights and a billion stars in a cloudless sky. A flat desert landscape, as alien as the moon. And then, through the windshield, the world spun as the car rolled over. A slam to the chest, a crunch, and then - oh God - the steering wheel crushing into him, his ribs cracking -

 

Suddenly, he was coughing and the machines were beeping faster and faster and…

 

When he could breathe properly again, there was a doctor talking to Maria.

 

“…waiting for the results of the blood test,” the doctor was saying, “but the white blood cell count would indicate that…”

 

“Hey,” he managed. Damn, he hated oxygen masks. They’d turned the flow up while he was panicking. They were doing that humidifying thing, so that it was feeding him not just oxygen, but whatever the hell that steam was that eased the congestion in his lungs.

 

Okay, so he hated oxygen masks, but this was good.

  

“I’m here,” he told the doctor. “Talk to me.”

 

“Ah, Mr Vecchio.” The woman turned and smiled at him. “Let’s see if we can sit you up a little more.” The back of the bed was already raised to its full extent, so she put an arm behind his shoulder. Maria, being a Vecchio woman, helped - started bustling and arranging pillows. Ray tensed up, his shoulders stiff, and let them position him. He hated being helpless.

 

“How are we feeling,” the doctor asked. Ray bit back a snort of derision. Oh, really? She had to go there. He rolled his eyes. Why did doctors and nurses always have to do that ‘we’ thing?

 

“’We’ are feeling like we just had our ribs kicked in,” he said.  “Well, that’s how I feel. Dunno about you.” He glanced at her nametag.  Jeeze... that was a bit of a mouthful... “Dr Chatoor...”

 

“Chaturvedi,” she said, and smiled. Probably used to people getting her name wrong.

 

She chuckled. “Well, you certainly seem a lot better than when you came in.”

 

“What the hell am I in for?”

 

“We’re waiting on your test results to confirm it, but  we’re pretty sure it’s  pneumonia,” she said. “Once we isolate the bacteria, we can get the right antibiotic.” She spoke reassuringly. “But it seems you’re responding well to the broad spectrum antibiotics we have you on.”

 

He groaned. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”

 

Last time he’d been on antibiotics, he’d broke out in a rash and couldn’t keep his food down. On top of which he’d had to run to the bathroom every half hour to… well. Least said about that the better. All of which was great fun when he was stuck in a wheelchair. That was after he’d been shot, jumping in front of Benny.

  
They’d been on the same side ward together, getting better, when the damned wound got infected. Benny was about ready to leave at that point, and Ray ended up having to stay an extra week. Ray knew he  had taken it out on Benny… well, just a little bit when he visited.  

_"Don’t think I’m getting shot for you again,”_ he’d said, the fifth time he’d trundled himself to the bathroom. _“I might be stupid, but I do learn.”_

 

_“Understood, Ray.”_

Jeez. Ray smiled at the memory, then winced and put his hand on his chest. Benny was gonna freak out when he realised he’d missed all the excitement.

 

“I know that you’ve had trouble with antibiotics in the past, Mr Vecchio,” the doctor said, “but don’t worry. That was a particularly aggressive infection we were dealing with last time and you didn’t respond as quickly as you’re doing now.”

 

“Trouble?” Maria looked concerned and Ray cringed. The last thing he wanted to do was mention his bowels in front of his sister. He glanced sideways at her, apologetically.

 

“It wasn’t anything,” he said. “I’m fine.”

 

The doctor rubbed her thumb along her bottom lip, thoughtfully, looking at his notes again. She raised an eyebrow, then smiled and tapped the folder. “You’re doing well.”

 

Ray could see Maria relaxing a little. 

 

The doctor continued. “Your temperature is still a little high and your blood sats a little low, but you’re improving.” She tilted her head, assessing him. “The sudden increase in your heart rate is concerning. Do you have a history of panic attacks or heart trouble?"

 

The beeping on the monitors was climbing again. Ray looked at the flashing numbers and tensed. _Three minutes past three,_ he thought, randomly, seeing his alarm clock. He forced himself to calm down. Not as bad as last time. At least he could breathe, unlike Armando.

 

“Mr Vecchio?”

 

Nah. He couldn't tell this woman he just had a vision of his long lost brother dying in a car crash. Shit, he wasn’t even sure what had happened. He’d dreamt Armando when he was ill, he knew that. Whether any of what he dreamt was real or not, he had no clue.

 

He closed his eyes. It all felt so real.

 

“Ray?” Maria’s voice. “Ray, what’s wrong?”

 

“Could you turn the noise off on the damned machines,” he whispered. Just hearing the pointed little beeps speeding up made him more anxious than he already was.

  
Mercifully, the noise stopped. He took a deep breath, started coughing again. Damn. He hated this.

 

When he opened his eyes Dr Chaturvedi was watching him, a concerned expression on her face. “What just happened, Mr Vecchio?”

 

Shit. He really _was_ gonna have to lie to the woman. It was becoming a habit. By the time Benny got back he’d have forgotten how to tell the truth at all. He had to say something.

 

“Flashback,” he bit out curtly. “And no. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

 

The doctor pursed her lips.  “Well,” she said. “I’ll arrange for you to see someone from psych - ”

 

“Hey! What did I just say?” Shit... he shouldn’t have snapped at the woman, but Ray really did not need his head shrunk. “I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m fine.”

 

She looked at him disapprovingly. “If you say so.” Oh God, she had that look on her face that Ma got when she pretended to back down because she knew she’d get her own way later. Shit...

 

“Alright, Mr Vecchio, just sit forward, let me listen to your lungs.”

 

Ray managed to sit forward, holding onto the side rails for support, and winced at the cold stethoscope on his back.

 

“Good. Sit back.”

 

He lay back on the pillows, sweating slightly from the effort, and she slid the stethoscope to the front of his chest.

 

“Good,” she said. “Good. Surprisingly good, in fact. Okay, I’m done.” She smiled. “I’ll leave you with your sister for now. We’ll leave the bag up until your electrolytes are back to normal, which shouldn’t be too much longer, and continue with the antibiotics intravenously as well. But hopefully we’ll pinpoint the right medicine soon, and you can take it orally.” She looked at his hand, and the purpling bruise around the  IV site. “Looks tender, but not infected. We’ll get it out soon enough. You’re still a little dehydrated, so try to drink as much as possible. It can only help. A nurse should be along in about an hour. If you need anything in the meantime, just press the button. And get some rest. Is there anything else you want to know?”

 

“Yeah. When can I get out of here?”

 

She laughed. “Let’s wait till you can breathe unassisted first. Hopefully soon. Oh, and Mr Vecchio?” A corner of her mouth twitched in a smile. “Please don’t go running off to Canada.”

  
Ray blushed. “You heard about that?”

 

“We all heard about that. Your mother was frantic, not to mention the lawyers. The legal department sent a memo to every department: ‘It is against hospital policy to allow patients to flee the country.’" The doctor shook her head. "You’re our most infamous guest. I hope I don’t have to chain you to the bed.”

 

“Okay, I promise. I won’t run off to Canada.”

 

The doctor looked at Maria with pointed amusement. “Keep an eye on him,” she said. “He’s a flight risk.”

 

With that parting shot, the doctor left the room. Ray put a hand to his chest. God, it hurt to laugh.

 

“Hey, Maria,” he said, when he’d calmed down. “Sorry I scared you guys.”

 

“It’s alright, Ray,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re so much better.”

 

“How’s Ma doing?”

 

“Driving the nurses up the wall. She had a dentist’s appointment, didn’t want to go. Tony dragged her off, saying she was setting a bad example to the kids, and their teeth would all fall out of their heads. You know what they’re like. Next time they’ve got to see the dentist they’d say ‘Nonna didn’t go, why do we have to go?’”

 

“That was smart of Tony,” Ray said, though he suspected it had been his sister’s idea. “The way to Ma’s heart is through the children.”

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” Maria smiled, and looked at her shoes. “Frannie’s gone home to take a shower. She’ll probably be back soon.”

 

“God, this is my week for scaring the crap out of everyone.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again, alarmed. “Hey, hang on… this is the same week, isn’t it? How long was I out?”

 

Maria patted his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s the same week. You got sick Thursday morning. We’re on Saturday.”

 

He shook his head. “When I went home early on Tuesday, I didn't even think I was that sick, just stressing out or tired. You know. Emotional crap or something.”

 

“You know,” she said, “maybe that’s part of the reason you got ill. You’ve been working too hard, and then there’s the…” she stuttered. “The thing you told me about.”

  
“Oh yeah.” The Father Curry thing. “Listen, sis… I’m sorry I freaked out like that. It’s okay. Really. It was years ago, and normally I don’t think about it at all.”

 

“Maybe you should… you know. Like the doctor said. Talk about it with someone.”

 

“Jeez,” he groaned. “Not you too. You been buying into all that touchy-feely crap in Frannie’s course books?”

 

“No!” Maria folded her arms, defensively. Then she sagged a little. “Well, maybe just a bit. I know you say you haven’t thought about it for years, but it came up again. You know why you remembered it now?”

 

Ray felt his face grimace beneath the plastic mask.

 

“Jeez,” he said. “I gotta get this thing off.” He tugged it loose, snapping the elastic, and sucked in air that didn’t taste of chemicals. “Ow.” The air was definitely thinner than he’d like, scalding, but he wasn’t putting the mask back on while he was talking to Maria. He held it close to his face and took a deep breath, then turned his head from it, looked at his sister. “I know what caused it,” he said. “It was something at work.” He held the mask back, took a few more breaths. “Just some shit, that’s all. I can’t talk about it, but it was…” Deep breath. “It was a shock, that’s all.” Yeah, Ray thought. That was one way to put it. A big fucking shock.

 

“Was it about a kid?”

 

 _Yeah,_ Ray thought. _Yeah, our brother._

 

“Yeah. It was a kid.” He was breathing more easily now, and put the mask down on the bed. Fine mist drifted from it, like smoke. He looked at her, carefully. He’d never be able to tell her the whole truth, but… “A man sold his baby. Told his wife the kid died, and sold him.”

 

“Oh, God... Ray.” Her eyes were wide and pained. “That’s terrible. Who could do a thing like that?”

 

Ray shut his eyes, against sudden tears. Damn. His lungs were beginning to burn again. He fumbled with the mask, pulling it back to his face. _'Pa,'_ he wanted to tell her, but she wasn’t quite three when it happened; she wouldn’t have known what was going on, wouldn’t remember it now. And he couldn’t do that to her - couldn’t put that knowledge in her head. He breathed through the mask until he was calm enough to speak. “There are sick bastards in the world.”

 

“Did they ever find him?” Maria’s voice was gentle. “Did they ever find the baby?”

 

Ray opened his eyes. He wasn’t surprised to see Armando standing beside their sister, his hand resting on her shoulder. He looked worse in daylight, as pale as candle wax. His features were washed out and cadaverous under the florescent lights, although, oddly, his wounds had disappeared.

 

“No,” he said, staring at his brother. “They didn’t find him.”

 

“So,” Maria hugged herself and shivered, “he could be out there somewhere?”

 

Ray was suddenly very, very tired.

 

“Somewhere.” He turned his head away, to the wall. “Nowhere. He’s dead now, anyway.”

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

“Yeah. I know.” He held the mask to his face, struggling to reattach the elastic so it would stay on. He needed it now.

 

“Let me do that,” she said, gently. He lay back and let her.

 

“Maria, I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand as she finished tying the knot. “I really need to sleep.”

 

“That’s okay. I’ll just phone Tony, so he can tell Ma you’ve been awake.”

 

“She musta been worried outta her mind.”

 

“The doctors told her you were doing well, but yeah… she was worried.”

 

“Tell her I’m fine.”

 

“Will do. She’ll be here soon anyway. And, I’ll call Frannie. She must have finished with her shower by now. Is there anything you want them to bring?”

 

“I’m fine,” he said. “Stop fussing.”

 

“Okay,” she kissed him. “Don’t go running off to Canada while I’m gone.”

 

He smiled, waggled his fingers in a weak wave as she stepped out the door.

 

And then it was just him and Armando.

 

His twin settled in the chair that Maria had vacated, and leant forward, elbows propped on his knees, long fingers steepled to a point.

 

“Better you than Pa any day,” Ray murmured, as his blinks grew slower and he drifted off. “Sorry to have to tell you,” a breath of laughter escaped his lips, “but our father’s a shit.”

 

The ghost inclined his head, as though thinking about this, then nodded and gave a lizard’s smile.

 

Ray fell asleep, strangely comforted by the monster at his bedside. He slept well.

~*~

 

“Ma, honestly, I’m fine.”

 

Ray was struggling his way into a pair of jeans. How far had he fallen, wearing jeans on a weekday. It would really help if Ma didn’t keep popping her head through the curtain and asking if she could do anything.

 

“I been getting dressed by myself for years, come on. Leave me alone, I’m a big boy now.”

 

She rolled her eyes. “Alright, alright. But if you need me I’ll be just outside the door.”

 

“Ma,” he glared at her. “I got this.”

 

She clucked her tongue and left the room. The door shut with a soft ‘click.’  

 

“Jeez,” Ray muttered, pulling the curtain back around his bed and buttoning his fly. _I love Ma, but sometimes…_

 

He frowned down at his clothes. They were looser than the last time he'd worn them. _A bout with pneumonia will do that to you,_ he thought, wryly. _The hell with it…_ he pulled the belt a notch tighter than usual, parted the curtain, and crossed the room. Sat on the chair by the window, annoyed by how wheezy he still was. Took a breath and started pulling on his gym shoes.  

 

 _This is Tony’s fault,_ he thought, scowling at the fraying seams and tugging on the laces. _I shoulda asked Frannie or Maria to bring me some clothes. Then I wouldn’t be walking outta here looking like something designed to scare off crows._

 

He was finishing a double knot when the door opened.

 

“Ma,” he snapped, “I told you. I don’t need any help.”

 

“Detective Vecchio?”

 

Ray sat up sharply and stared. Some guy he didn’t know had just walked into the room with a clipboard and an official attitude. Just what he needed when he was about to get sprung from this joint. Another doctor. Ray looked at him suspiciously. He was a skinny man, mousy-haired and just… off somehow. Huh... Ray narrowed his gaze. The doctor’s white coat looked brand new. Not only that, but really, really clean...

 

“Yeah?”

 

“My name’s Doctor Johnson,” the man said. “I wondered if we could have a word?”

 

“What about? I’m out of here. They said I could go home.”

 

“Yes, of course. But I do have a few routine questions first.”

 

“Routine?” This wasn’t routine. Ray had done the hospital thing over the years with family members, cops injured on the job, including himself and Benny. When you were ‘released,’ they didn’t send doctors around to ask more questions. Accountants chasing up insurance, yeah, maybe. But not doctors. Ray settled back into his chair, pretending to relax, while  keeping a close eye on the man.

 

“When you came in, you were delirious. What do you remember about that?”

 

“Nothing,” Ray said, though that wasn’t true. “You said it yourself. I was delirious. Probably saw hippos in polka dot tutus. Anything else?”

 

Johnson nodded nervously, not meeting Ray’s eyes. He kept glancing out the window, fiddling with his tie. “Do you think anything triggered your…”

 

Ray started laughing.

 

“What,” the man said, looking nervous.

 

“You mind if I call you Johnson? I mean, I know it’s probably not your real name, but I can’t just call you FBI fall guy.”

 

Johnson blanched.

 

“If this is your first undercover gig,” Ray continued, “I gotta tell you, you’re the worst actor I’ve ever seen.” He folded his hands behind his head, grinning. “You’re no more a doctor than I am.”

 

The man blushed, looked nervously out the window. Ray followed his gaze. “They out there with a camera or something?” He turned, waved cheerily, then faced Johnson again. “Now, what are you really here for?”

 

The man cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “We had some questions. Apparently, when you… uhm, took ill, there was something about the timing. And they thought…” He looked out the window again, and bit his lip. “They thought it sounded like you were talking to Armando.”

 

Ray sat back, and went cold. “You realise what you just told me, don’t you?”

 

“What?”

 

“You just told me that the FBI have been listening in on my family. Spying on my house.”

 

“Shit,” the guy muttered, unprofessionally. He really was crap at undercover.

 

“Yeah.” Ray schooled his face and voice to be completely devoid of expression. “You said it. Shit.”

“Look, I’m sorry, but we’re trying everything we know to get the Iguana family, and the Bookman’s our only way in…”

 

“So, spying on my family helps you how?”

 

“We had to know why you were so reluctant to help us."

 

“What, getting kneecapped isn’t a good enough reason?”

 

The man bit his lip, but carried on talking. He was nervous, but just about holding it together. “They thought that maybe your family was still somehow connected…”

“My family hasn’t been connected since the old man died. And even then, he was just small-time.”

 

“He worked for the Zukos.”

 

“Didn’t everybody,” Ray said sourly.

 

“Did you?”

 

“Did I hell,” Ray snapped. What was it this week? First Frannie, now the FBI, thinking he was mobbed up. “You guys have a fucking nerve. I’m just talking about the good old days. You know as well as I do, when I was a kid, everyone in the neighbourhood had to pay the piper.”

 

“Your father did more than pay the piper.”

 

Ray was caught off guard by the statement, but didn’t let his expression change. “Yeah,” he conceded, grimly. “So, why bring the Zukos into it?”

  
“They were the baby brokers.”

 

“They…” Ray went still, the words frozen in his mouth. For a moment all he was aware of was the lingering pain in his chest as he breathed in and out.

 

Pa Zuko was the baby broker. Ray’s ‘Pa,’ Pa Vecchio, gave the baby to his cousin, old man Zuko. Zuko gave the baby to Langoustini senior. Did the first Bookman come to Chicago in person to collect Armando? Probably not. Most likely Zuko senior had the baby shipped down to Vegas, like a parcel. Handed him over in the dead of night. Who delivered him? Zuko himself? He wouldn’t have trusted the job to just anyone. Did Zuko hand Armando over to his new ‘mother’? Ray wondered if the old bitch was still alive somewhere, and if she was, what the fuck he was gonna do if he ever met ‘Ma’ Langoustini.

 

His hands were clammy and his face was cold.

 

Zuko.

 

With no conscious volition, Ray leaned forward and stared at Johnson. He propped his elbows on his knees, steepled his hands. The man looked back at him and swallowed. Ray felt it, a slow smile slithering across his face, and knew without seeing it exactly what that smile was. An Armando smile. Johnson was pinioned beneath it, like a mouse before a cobra.

 

“Zuko,” Ray breathed. “Of course it was Zuko. Shoulda guessed.”

 

Outside the room, somebody dropped something, a tray perhaps, and somebody else laughed. Ray shook his head, snapped out of it. “So,” he asked, sudden misery rising in his throat, and oh God, he was feeling like himself again. “What did he get for it? Pa? What was his price? How much damn money did he owe the Mob, that he’d sell his own son?”

 

“His debts were written off, that’s true. But more than that, he got the house.”

 

“The house?”

 

“The house you’re living in now.”

 

Ray stood, propelled to his feet  by a sudden unspeakable thought. He turned to the window. Somewhere Johnson’s colleagues were listening to this conversation on a wiretap. If Johnson’s body language was anything to go by, they could see him right now. _There,_ he thought. _If it was me, I’d have the surveillance team over there, for the best line of sight and… Yes._ There it was, a plumber’s van. That’s where they’d be. He stared at it, bleakly.

 

God almighty. When he was a kid, the one thing he’d always known that he could be proud of about his Pa, beside his pool playing, was the fact that he’d worked his guts out and provided his family with a house. Yeah, lots of other guys did that. Decent guys who worked hard, and managed to keep their jobs. But it meant something to Ray as a kid, that his father, for all his faults, had done that one right thing.

 

_He didn’t even do that._

 

For a horrible moment, Ray wondered if he could even go home now, if he could even put his foot back in the front door. _‘I’ll go to Benny’s,’ _he thought, then remembered: _Benny's not there.___

 

Ma was waiting outside the door, probably wondering how long it took him to get his pants on. He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. More likely she was panicking, thinking the ‘doctor’ had bad news.

 

He had one more question though, before he had to leave.

 

“Three minutes past three,” he said, to the window, to the surveillance team, so they could see him looking at them. “He died, didn’t he?”

 

He turned, stared at Johnson, still standing there with his phony clipboard. Poor schmuck looked scared to death.

 

“Who…”

 

“Don’t treat me like an idiot. You guys think you own the country, but you don’t own me. Just tell me. Who killed him?”

 

“How…” Johnson stopped talking, seemed to be trying to swallow but not quite succeeding. Ray waited. “How did you know?”

 

Ray moved in quickly, leaned close to the other man’s ear. He could see the guy’s pulse jumping in his throat, way too fast. He flicked a glance at Johnson’s tie and smiled. Fuck's sake, they forgot they were dealing with a cop here. He could see where they’d attached the wire. Well then. Let them hear.

 

“The car flipped over” he stated, calmly, like this was a normal conversation. “He had his kids in the back.”

 

Johnson’s throat made a clicking noise and he swallowed. His face was very white.

 

“You guys don’t know everything,” Ray said. “Remember that.” Johnson nodded, frantically. Ray put his hand on the man’s shirt gently, smoothed it. Tapped the knot of his tie, so it would echo on the tape, so the Feds would know for certain he’d seen through everything. “Remember this too.” Ray took Johnson’s chin between his fingers and thumb so he couldn’t move his head, and looked him right in the eyes. “When I find out who killed him, they’d better run.”

 

“Jesus,” Johnson whispered, leaning as far back as he could. “It was an accident…”

 

“Steering column went right through his chest,” Ray said. “The bones broke. Chest caved right in. What do you suppose that feels like?”

 

“I don’t know,” Johnson whispered.

 

“Who were the kids in the car? His kids? Did you guys kill my nephews and nieces?”

 

“No, I swear, it was an accident. Or… or...” Johnson stuttered frantically. “Maybe  some Mob guys took out a hit on him. But it wasn’t us, I swear.”

 

Ray stepped back, released Johnson. He stared down at him, then folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah,” he said. “You actually believe that, don’t you?”

 

“Yes,” Johnson said. He had sweat on his top lip.

 

“Awful convenient though,” Ray said, “the timing.”

 

Johnson just sat and sweated.

 

“I don’t know what you guys think you’re playing at, but I’m leaving now.”

 

He grabbed his bag and turned to the window one last time. Raised a hand in mock salute.

 

“Ciao,” he said and didn’t laugh.

 

Ma was waiting at the nurses’ station, looking at pictures of Nurse Hannah’s granddaughter.

 

“Raimondo,” she said, a relieved smile spreading across her face. “You’re ready.”

 

“Yeah.” He kissed her cheek. “Let’s… let’s go.”

 

He put an arm around her shoulder, squeezed protectively. They’d go back to the house together. But he didn’t think he could ever call it ‘home’ again.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

  
  
Thank God it wasn’t raining today. Ma had stopped fussing at least a little bit, and Ray was finally getting some fresh air. Okay, it was still a little nippy, but it was good to be out of the house. First time since he’d been in the hospital and - damn - he couldn’t remember enjoying an early morning walk so much. He grinned down at Tony. It must have been contagious, because Tony grinned back.

  
As they approached the red brick building, his nephew grabbed his hands and dragged him to the school gates.

  
“Hey,” Ray laughed. “You know I can’t stay with you.”

  
“Yeah, I know, but l want to show you to Sammy.”

  
“Show me? What am I, a baseball card?”

  
“Please, Uncle Ray? Sammy doesn’t believe I have an uncle who’s a real cop.”

  
Ray sighed. Part of him was worn out by Tony’s hero-worship, part of him was touched. He tousled his nephew’s hair. It had been a few years since Angelica had wanted to show him off to her friends. These days, she was more likely to act  like a typical pre-teen, rolling her eyes and moaning ‘don’t’ when her friends came round. Though she was being a lot nicer the last few days, and ‘hugged the stuffing’ out of him when he got back from hospital. He almost told her to back off and not squeeze so hard, his ribs ached, but it was nice for her to treat him like a teddy bear again. She even curled up on the couch next to him, tucking her knees up under her chin so they could cuddle while she read her chapter for English. “Love you Uncle Ray,” she’d said and kissed his cheek at bedtime.

  
“Wow, she musta thought I was gonna die,” he said to Tony as she vanished to her room. For once, his brother-in-law didn’t make a joke.

  
“We all did.”

  
Well… shit. He was in the hospital less than a week. How ill had he been?

  
Still, it was flattering to know that little Tony wanted to show his uncle off to his friends.

  
“Okay,” Ray laughed. “Which one’s Sammy?”

  
“He’s the one with orange hair.”

  
“They call it red hair.”

  
“Why? It’s orange.”

  
Ray had to admit - Tony had a point. Sammy, plump and pale, was running across the playground, and looking like an orange flare. Jeez, that kid must get picked on everyday, amongst all these _paesanos_. As if the hair wasn’t bad enough, the poor kid was covered in freckles. He might as well have the map of Ireland all over his face.

  
“He’s new, ain’t he?” Ray didn’t often walk Tony to school, which might be why the novelty hadn’t yet worn off his nephew, but he’d seen most of his friends coming in and out of the house for dinner at some point. He’d have remembered Sammy.

  
“Yeah, he only started a few weeks ago.” Tony puffed out his chest proudly. “Some of the other kids were picking on him, so I’m his police protection.”

  
Ray looked down at his nephew with a delighted smile. _Way to go, Tony, stick up for the underdog._ “You’re a good kid,” he said, squeezing his hand. “I’m proud of you.”

  
Tony bounced on his toes and heels, radiant at his uncle’s praise.

  
“Hey, Tony,” the redheaded kid said breathlessly as he arrived at the other side of the schoolyard fence. “Who’s that?” He jerked a head at Ray, who swallowed a smile at the cheerful bad manners of children.

  
“This is my Uncle Ray,” Tony said.

  
“What, the policeman?”

  
“Yeah. He’s been shot.”

  
Sammy looked up at Ray with respect. “Cool,” he said. “Can I see the wound?”

  
“Nah,” Ray tried not to laugh. “It’s under my clothes.”

  
“Oh.” Sammy’s face fell, disappointed. “Can I see your gun then?”

  
Ray paused. There was a time when he’d never have bought a gun to the school gates, even in this neighbourhood, but since he met Benny, he was shot at, blown up, kidnapped, or locked up on a regular basis. So yeah… he was carrying. Even so, he wasn’t about to show the thing to kids, like owning a gun was something to aspire to.

  
He remembered back when he was in school, only a year or two older than Tony, and Frank Zuko had brought a gun. He’d pulled it out of his backpack at recess and showed it off. Back then, everyone thought he was cool. Back then, Ray was the plump kid who was being picked on and still wanted to be friends with ‘Frankie.’

  
Everyone knew Frankie’s Pa owned the neighbourhood. The gun was reverently passed around the playground until one of the teachers confiscated it. Instead of Frankie being expelled - which was official school policy - the weapon was returned to the elder  Zuko. A week later, the teacher got another job. Frankie missed school for a couple of days after the incident with the gun.  When he came back, he had a black eye and split lip. Said he’d fallen off his bike, but Ray, at least, knew better.

  
It was weird, Ray thought, to feel the weight of his weapon at his belt and remember Frank Zuko had once been a victim himself. And it was weird that children never changed. It always disturbed him how eager children were to see a gun. When they heard Ray was a cop, it was the first thing they wanted to see.

  
“Nah, kid,” Ray said. “I can’t show it to you. It’s not a toy.”

  
Sammy pushed out a lower lip, the picture of petulance. “I bet you never really got shot,” he said.

  
“Hey,” Tony said, bridling. “He just got out of hospital.”

  
Ray folded his arms, stepped back and looked down at his nephew sternly. He naturally fell back into Italian. It was the language of family discipline, after all, and the best way to show the nine year old that he was serious.

 

“Antonio, sai benissimo che questo non ha nulla che fare con il mio ferimento.”

  
Tony did indeed know that Ray’s recent stay at the hospital had nothing to do with him being shot, but he wasn’t ready to back down.

  
“Potrebbe invece,” Tony replied obstinately. “Potrebbe esserci stata una ricaduta.”

  
“Dopo essere stato ferito alla spalla più di un anno fa?” Seriously… did Tony actually believe that? Did the kid even listen to himself?A relapse? Only a kid’s logic could connect a recent bout with pneumonia to a shooting that happened over a year ago. Ray shook his head, incredulous.

  
“What are you two saying,” Sammy asked, bobbing up and down, his hands clutching the railings.

  
“Uncle Ray was shot in the shoulder,” Tony said, returning to English. He glanced up at Ray with a ‘please don’t make me look bad in front of my friend’ expression on his face.

  
Ray glared at his nephew, sending psychic family vibes to ‘shuddup already.’ “È passato troppo tempo,” he insisted, because it really was a long time ago… relatively speaking. He couldn’t point it out though. Not at the school gates, in front of Tony’s friend. It would embarrass his nephew and, in the world of schoolboy politics, there was nothing worse than being embarrassed.

  
“Zio, è la verità.”

  
“No, non lo è,” Ray declared, because Tony might be nine, but he knew when something was true or not. “E proprio tu, più di tutti, dovresti saperlo.” Tony gave him the big sad bambino eyes, so Ray reiterated the point, this time in English. “You should know that.”

  
“A volte le bugie sono cose buone,”  Tony pointed out, like it was scripture.

  
 _Just what I need to hear_ , Ray thought bitterly. ‘Sometimes a lie is a good thing.’ _Yeah, well. Poor kid doesn’t mean any harm by it. Maybe we should have that damned proverb inscribed in marble and placed over the front door of the house. What, is it the family motto or something?_ He shook his head at Tony, disappointed.

  
“Per favore?” The boy tugged on his arm, looking like a wounded puppy. “Please?”

  
“Yeah, alright,” Ray rolled his eyes. “So I was shot. So what?”

  
Tony beamed at him, then grinned at his friend. “See? I told you. He jumped in front of a gun and saved this other cop’s life.”

  
“Hey, Tony,” Ray flushed. “Stop that.” Trust the kid to tell that story and not the one that mattered, the one where he’d shot Benny in the back. ‘ _Friendly fire…’ What idiot came up with that phrase?_ It was an accident, but it still didn’t feel friendly.

  
“Yes, Uncle Ray,” Tony said, looking at Sammy a little bit smugly. “See, I told you he was cool.”

  
Sammy was looking at Ray now with a grudging respect. “Can I see your badge?”

  
 _You couldn’t have asked for that first?_ Ray sighed, pulled out his wallet, and showed his ID. Sammy’s eyes were wide and Ray realised that the kid was gaping at the badge clipped to his belt.

  
Sammy nodded his head in approval. “Cool.”

  
“Okay, Tony,” Ray patted the back of his nephew’s head. “If you’re done embarrassing me, get into school.”

  
“The bell hasn’t gone…” Tony’s voice drifted off. “Who’s that?”

  
Ray turned and felt everything tighten up inside him. “Get inside now,” he commanded Tony and stepped in front of him.

  
“Uncle Ray?”

  
“NOW.”

  
Tony froze for a second, then bolted through the gate.

  
“You people coming to the school now?” Ray’s voice was clipped as he squared off against Agent Cash. “That’s a new low, even for you.” He took a fierce step forward. Cash stood his ground - not aggressively, but determined. The agent’s jaw tightened.  Ray’s hand drifted to the holster where he kept his 9-mil, hovering there. He realised that he’d finally given not only Sammy an eyeful of the weapon, but half the other kids in the yard as well. Tony was going to be the hero of the playground. When Maria heard about this, if she didn’t kill her brother, she'd certainly never let him walk the kids to school again.

  
Maybe he’d overreacted.

  
He remembered Armando's children singing in the back of the car, then a twisting skid and the world flipping over. The impact of the steering wheel, the sound of shattering glass.

  
Maybe he hadn’t overreacted at all.

  
 _Shit,_ _I’ve got to get this bastard away from the kids._ He darted a glance at Tony and his friend. On the other side of the fence children were gathering in a flock to see the excitement. He shot a filthy look at Cash and crossed the street. _Walk away,_ he told himself, forcing one foot in front of the other. _Away from the kids. Away from the school.Get this shit off their doorstep. Just walk away._

  
Cash followed him, as Ray knew he would. He kept moving, drawing the agent on, putting space between himself and the school. Cash sped up and dodged in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.

  
Anger flared up in Ray’s chest and his hand twitched toward his gun holster. Shit. He froze mid motion - what was he thinking? Cash saw the gesture and took a swift step back. Ray smiled grimly, kept walking. Cash matched him step for step, still moving backward. _Away from the yard,_ Ray thought. _That’s right, back away._  

  
“Detective Vecchio,” Cash said, his hands spread in a placating gesture that was not quite a surrender. The guy sounded surprisingly calm, like Benny talking down a perp. “We mean no disrespect, but we have to talk.”   

  
The school bell rang and Ray looked across the road. Kids were staring at them, faces pressed up to the iron railings, looking like the world’s tiniest felons. Somehow Ray and Cash had marched each other right across to the other sidewalk.

  
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  
Cash nodded, turned, and walked. Ray kept pace with him, swiftly, ignoring the sting in his chest. Left and right, he glanced around, to see who was following them. There had to be someone.

  
There it was. Black van. Of course.

  
He felt his lips thin.  They weren’t even trying to hide.

  
Bastards.

  
They rounded the corner and the van came to a halt. Cash stopped beside it, turned toward Ray and folded his arms across his chest.  

  
The side doors of the van slid open and a heavy set Asian guy stuck out his head. “Detective,” he said. “Get in.”

  
 _Like I have a choice_ , Ray thought, recognising the voice. This was the menacing phone call guy. _Figures he’d turn up about now._ Ray didn’t say anything as he climbed in.

~*~

  
  
The interior of the van wasn’t anything like the movies. True, there was computer equipment and a monitor screwed to the panel on the passenger side, but none of it was very impressive. No flashing lights. Little Tony would have been disappointed. The monitor wasn’t a Bond-style flat screen, but instead resembled a second-hand television, beaten up and dusty. Right now, the thing wasn’t even turned on. The screen was dark and Ray wondered, briefly, if it even worked or if it was just for show.

  
Besides himself and Cash, three other men were crowded into the back of the van. They didn’t need all these guys, Ray thought. Most of them were only there to make up the numbers, to try and intimidate him. The car seats were too close together. A man sat on either side of him, hemming him in. Cash and the Asian guy sat opposite. Behind their heads was a sheet of darkened glass, separating them from the driver, and whoever else was  riding shotgun. Ray leaned back in his seat, extended his legs, crossed them languidly, increasing his personal space. It was cramped back here, he was outnumbered, and he had no idea where they were taking him. They owned this whole scenario, but damned if he was gonna give them the satisfaction of looking scared.

  
“So, what do you boys want?” He smoothed out the lapels of his jacket. “What can I do for the FBI?”

  
“You know what we want of you, Detective.”

  
“You know what I told you.”

  
The heavy-jowled Asian guy leaned forward and looked him in the eye. He was in his fifties, looked like an out of condition boxer… going to seed perhaps, but still not someone you’d want to meet in a back alley. Ray met his gaze and smiled.

  
“You told us two things, Detective,” the man said. “You told us that you wouldn’t do it, and then you told us that if you found out who ordered the hit on Armando, you’d kill them.”

  
“Did I?” Ray thought of the feral tom that Frannie kept feeding in the back garden, how he spread out indolently in the sun. Ray grinned, all insolence and teeth, and stretched himself like the cat. Counter-intimidation technique number one: take up the enemies’ space. He lounged, casually. The guys on either side of him shifted, in tiny increments, away. “So, you’re calling it a hit now? I thought you guys said it was an accident.”

  
Apart from the sound of the engine there was silence. Ray smiled. They were waiting for him to crack, start babbling. Basic psychology, really. Say nothing for long enough, the other guy gets nervous, starts talking just to fill the silence. He’d conducted this kind of interview himself. Not quite an interrogation. Coercion… nah. Call it by its name. Bullying.

  
Yeah, Ray knew just what they were doing. He knew, from the other side of the fence, how to turn somebody into a police informant. He’d manipulated people into wearing wires and gathering evidence for the police, even when they were too damned scared to see straight. He’d managed to talk them through the fear, keep them alive. That’s what these guys were trying to do to him, only on a larger scale. Though he wasn’t sure he’d trust them to keep him alive.

  
The moment you showed weakness, that was the moment you were lost.  Ray wasn’t going to show weakness. He stayed silent, let them sweat.

  
“Detective Vecchio,” the agent started again. “We don’t understand why you would make such a threatening comment.”

  
Ray lifted an eyebrow, sardonically. “Someone kills my brother and his kids, and you think I shouldn’t take it personally?”

  
“Two weeks ago, you didn’t even know Armando was your brother,” the man pointed out. “It’s not as if you were close. Have you ever had any contact with him?”

  
Ray startled himself with a laugh. For a moment he imagined just telling them.

  
_Oh yeah. We’ve gotten real close since he died. Came and looked after me when I got sick, visited me in the hospital. He’s not real chatty though..._

  
The other men in the van stiffened in their seats, apparently nervous. Ray felt his lip curl, sardonically. Apparently him laughing freaked the hell out of them. Good.

  
“Didn’t know I had a twin till you guys told me,” he said, still smiling.

  
“Really? Are you sure you had no contact with him before…”

  
Ray sat forward, stared at the heavyset man, who stopped talking, mid-sentence.   _Not so tough when you’re not on the phone, are you?_

  
“What’s your name, Champ?” he asked. “Since you think you know everything about me, I’d like to know one thing about you. What’s your name?”

  
“Of course. I should have introduced myself.” The man offered his hand, then dropped it when Ray pointedly ignored the gesture. “Agent Sharma.”

  
“Well, Agent Sharma, you’re right. A fortnight ago I had no clue I had a twin brother. I did kinda wonder if there were any other little Vecchios out there. For all I know my dear old Pa left a tribe of bastards from Lake View to the Wild Hundreds. You probably got a better idea about that than I do. But let’s get one thing clear between us. No more of your bullshit games.” He glared at the agent. “You bastards know damn well I had no idea about Armando.”

  
Sharma conceded the point with a fractional nod. Ray sat back, trying to batten down his anger. He had to keep a clear head. “And while I’m at it, I got another question for you,” he said. “Why the hell don’t you people take ‘no’ for an answer?”

  
“We’ve been trying for years to - ”

  
“Yeah, yeah. So you keep telling me. I know the party line. Bring down the Langoustinis. I get that. Defend America from organised crime. But here’s the big question.” He moved up so close to Sharma that their knees nearly touched and pointed his finger at his face. “Tell me this. What is the fucking point of defending America if people aren’t free to say ‘no’?”

  
Sharma met his eyes, steadily. Shit... the bastard really didn’t give a damn. Ray turned in his seat, staring at the men sitting around him on all sides. He clenched his fists.  


“Who the hell’s gonna protect America from men like you?”

  
Only Cash had the decency to meet Ray’s gaze with an apology in his eyes rather than stony indifference. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but instead turned his face away and stared as though he could see through the blackened windows.

  
Sharma sat back heavily. His sighed, resting his folded arms on his protruding belly. “There’s one more thing,” he said. “Before you make your mind up.”

  
“My mind’s made up.”

  
Sharma shook his head. “Either way. There’s one more thing you have to see.”

~*~

  
It wasn’t immediately obvious what kind of place this was. They piled out of the van into an underground parking garage. Sharma, Cash, the two guys who’d sat beside him at the back, the driver and the other guy up front. They fell into military step, surrounding him, and marched. Ray had his hardest, coldest mask on, but he was sweating through his suit. He wanted to ask where the hell they were, but there was no way he was going to give them the advantage of seeing his fear. If they’d been planning on telling him, they would have said something already.

  
From the car park they stepped into an elevator. Stepping back out he could sense they were still underground. Nothing obvious… not a particular echo, not a chill in the air. A slightly stale odour, perhaps, and there were no windows to the outside. He realised, as they walked the long corridor, that he was literally, at this point, their prisoner. Flanked on all sides, two men at his back, one each to his left and right, Sharma and Cash leading from the front. It reminded him of something. It seemed that there was some peculiar resonance to the sound of their footfall, but that might have been his imagination. Phantom spiders were scuttling up and down his spine.

  
Benny would probably be able to pinpoint this place on a map, Ray thought, repressing his shudders. He’d have been listening for clues instead of arguing with the bastards. Benny always did have more sense. The only thing Ray knew for certain was that they’d crossed a long bridge, and at one point had been on a freeway. He might be able to use that information later on to narrow down his search - _ah hell. What’s the point? Even if I figure out where the fuck I am, it won’t do me any good._ Besides, right now he shouldn’t even be thinking about coming back here. He should be looking for exits, escape strategies. Calculating the odds that he was ever getting out.

  
Finally they stopped just outside a metal door. Ray frowned at it. They had passed several offices on the way here, but this wasn’t the door to an office. It was cold here. This was the door to a...

  
And there he was, Armando. Leaning against the wall, between Sharma and Cash.  Arms folded, eyes hooded, clothed in grey Armani, with fine black leather shoes. He saw Ray seeing him and smiled.

  
“No,” Ray said, forgetting to be Zen, forgetting to be cool, forgetting all about Frannie’s cat. “I’m not going in there.”

  
“Detective…”

  
“I know what you’re gonna show me. I don’t need to see it. I already know.”

  
“Detective,” Sharma said, and his voice was very grave. “We can’t let you go till you’ve seen. That’s how this has to work.”

  
Shit. He was hyperventilating. He stepped back, stepped back again, and banged the back of his head against the wall. His eyes were too wide, staring, fixed on his brother. He could hear a whistle in his chest as he tried to catch his breath. Why? Why? What was the point of this? He looked back at Sharma with desperation in his eyes.

  
“What… what the hell good will it do? I don’t have to do this… you know who he is.”

  
“I’m sorry, Detective Vecchio. But we need you to see.”

  
“I’ve already seen,” he shouted, suddenly losing it, breaking completely, and pointing at the wall. Armando blinked away, with a cryptic expression, but Ray couldn’t stop yelling. “I ended up in the fucking hospital because I saw. I was fucking there, don’t you get that? He died. I don’t need to see him.”

  
And oh, God. There it was, that was it… The moment. They had him. The moment you show weakness, you’ve lost. He shut his eyes, turned his head away, cheek pressed flat against the wall, and shook. _Breathe, damn it, breathe. Don’t look at the door._

  
He had to.

  
Don’t look at the door to the…

  
Arms hunched around his chest, he counted. Benny had shown him how to do this… Benny and his breathing exercises. God, where was his friend when he needed him? ‘ _Be the caribou,’_ Ray teased him in his head and gasped out a sharp and stabbing laugh.

  
Gradually his heart slowed down, his breathing settled, and he opened his eyes. Turned his face and looked at… Looked at ‘it.’ The door. Made of gun-grey metal, but in his head… In his head it was forever red. He knew that, looking at it. Knew that he’d never remember it any other colour.

  
Red. Not Benny red, not Frannie lipstick red.

  
Blood red. His brother’s blood.

  
Sharma, Cash and the other guys were lined up against him on the facing wall, three on either side of ‘the door’, like a firing squad. He laughed again, suddenly realising what the march down the corridor had reminded him of, why it had seemed so familiar: Jimmy Cagney, in _Angels With Dirty Faces,_ marching to his death.  


 _Not my death,_ Ray thought, bitterly. _Not yet, though they’ll probably bring me to it._  


He straightened himself, stood firm, lifted his chin. Smiled, as he hoped he’d have the courage to do at his own execution.  


“’Pray for a boy who couldn’t run as fast as me,’” he quoted, dry-eyed.  


The FBI agents looked blank. They would have looked just as blank if they’d known the film, if they’d known what the hell he was talking about. Why would they care? Why would anyone? Who, anyway, could Armando have run to? Who could he have ever asked for help?

 

“Alright then,” Ray said, in a flat monotone. “Let’s do it.”

  
Sharma swung open the door. Ray squared his shoulders and stepped into the morgue.

~*~

  
Armando was laid out beneath a sheet. A tall, thin woman in a white coat was waiting by the gurney, pale as a corpse herself. Even before she had pulled back the cover, Ray realised he would be okay. He’d been scared that he’d collapse, but… No. He’d seen his brother, three times now. Four, if you counted the day that they were born. This thing, this body on the slab, whatever else it might be, was not his brother anymore.

  
Even so, he turned his head away when the woman, in her lab coat and her latex gloves, reached for the sheet, preparing to reveal the face.

  
“Detective Vecchio,” Sharma said implacably. Ray squeezed his eyes shut. For a horrible moment, he was naked again, with his eyes shut in the presbytery and Father Curry telling him what to do.

  
No.

  
Anything - even this - was better than that. He seized on irrelevant detail and wondered about the FBI woman. Skinny, tall, and greying. Even her eyes were grey. Not irrelevant in her own world, he reminded himself. Did she have kids? A guy friend, a girl friend… widowed? Who was she? A doctor, perhaps. Someone from forensics? Or just an unfortunate lab technician who got dragged in for today?

  
“Detective Vecchio,” Sharma repeated, in his ominous baritone.

  
Ray blinked and turned back to the shrouded corpse. His jaw was killing him, his teeth aching on the right-hand side. He raised his left hand and cupped his face. Groaned before he could stop himself. Jesus, there it was again, the pain in his ribs. He wrapped the other arm around his chest, tried not to double up and failed. Everything hurt.

  
“Detective,” came a concerned voice. Agent Cash. “Are you alright?” The man’s hand was resting lightly on his back.

  
Ray pulled himself back into an upright position, shrugged off the agent’s touch. “Yeah,” he lied. “I’m fine. Get it over with.”

  
The woman rolled back the sheet as far as Armando’s chin.

  
His brother’s face - his own face - looked as though it had been modeled out of clay, devoid of life. It should have freaked him out to see someone so… so identical to himself lying on a slab. He should have been disturbed by how numb he felt, but... numb was good. Ray stared at the corpse, with a clinical dispassion. He felt pain in his own body. Phantom and physical both. Bones, and skin, and teeth, and… yes. That was blood, he realised, sharp as metal in his throat and in his mouth. Other than that… he felt nothing.

  
Only a quarter of Armando’s face was broken. Both eyes, his forehead, even his nose were intact. Red slices on his scalp, ugly, but nothing that would have killed him. Stitched up like Frankenstein.

  
For a moment there was a strange flash -  as though Ray was at a crime scene and forensics was taking photographs. His brother’s face strobed and changed. Ray stared as Armando’s cheek split open to the bone. He looked like he did that first time, when he sat by Ray’s bedside. His skin had purpled horribly, like rotting fruit. Ray had seen all this before. It didn’t shock him. The jaw was shattered on one side, a white spur jutting through the skin.

  
And then Ray was back in the morgue, looking at the embalmed and stitched up corpse. Whoever prepared the body had tucked Armando’s bones back into alignment, stitched over them. Yeah, you could see where they’d been broken, but they’d made an attempt to repair him.

  
Ray realised, distantly, that he was his brother’s mirror, still cradling his own jaw.

  
He remembered now. When the car flipped Armando had thrown his left arm up to protect himself, leaving his right side open. His head had slammed on the dashboard, cheek and jaw striking sharp edges. He’d bounced, the teeth on his right side shattering like glass. Shattering like the wind shield which rained onto his scalp. All along his brother’s inner arm were shards of metal, broken window, road. Ray felt the memory of them carving through his skin. He lifted his left arm in sympathy, elbow crooked over his head.

  
“Lacerations here,” he said, fingers trailing the length of his own tricep, from his elbow to his armpit.

  
“Yes,” the woman said and blinked hard.

  
He nodded, still staring at his brother’s face. “Yeah,” he murmured, dropping his arm back down to protect his chest. He glanced at her for confirmation. “Steering column went through here,” he stated, thumping at his breastbone with his fist. _‘Mea culpa’_ the gesture whispered in his head. “Ribs caved in here,” he added, and pressed his hand flat against his own ribcage, on the left hand side, where it still hurt to breath.

  
“Yes,” the woman said, blanching.

  
“He bit clean through his tongue,” Ray said and swallowed.

  
“Yes,” she whispered. When Ray looked at her, he realised that she was so white she was nearly green.

  
“Yeah,” he said, and nodded. Looked back at his brother. Bit his own tongue, in spasm. God help him. That’s why the ghost couldn’t talk. “Armando,” he said, softly, feeling his own blood in his mouth. “Il mio povero fratello. ”

  
Ray’s hand dropped from his aching jaw. He watched as his knuckles traced the cold line of his brother’s face, on the clean side.

  
“She called you Giuseppe,” he told him. “If you’d stayed with us, that would have been your name.”

  
Armando said nothing. Armando wasn’t there.

  
Ray blinked, squeezed in a good breath. The pain washed out of him so suddenly he was dizzy with it. He turned away from the corpse and the pale-faced woman, and back to the men who had brought him to this place. He noticed, distantly, that they seemed to be afraid.

  
“Can I go now?”

  
“One more thing.” Agent Sharma’s voice was rough, as though he had to force himself to speak.

  
Ray smiled, grimly. “There’s always one more thing with you guys.” He shrugged, rocked his head on his shoulders, left to right. Crack. Shook his limbs loose. What could be worse than what he had just seen?

  
Sharma looked at the FBI woman, a silent command. She nodded, a nervous gesture, and stepped to one of the drawers.

  
And then Ray’s legs gave out under him, folded like paper, and he fell. The woman… doctor, forensic technician, who the fuck gave a fucking shit… She pulled on one of the drawers, and…

  
A long shelf slid out, and on it, a little body. A tiny little body, under a sheet of white. A little… a little… oh Jesus Christ. Such a little thing…

  
And the woman pulled back the sheet, and…

  
Tiny. Smaller than Tony. Much smaller and he was such a kid still. Not much older than Vito, oh God. She had a sweet baby face and dimples where she smiled. She probably still wore diapers at night.

  
“Detective.” Sharma pulled him back up from his knees. “You have to see this.”

  
Such a small child. Three years old, maybe, not more than that. A little girl.

  
Oh God. Holy Mother of God. His brother’s daughter, on a slab. Peaceful face, but for one black eye. He saw her in a flash, reflected in the rear-view mirror, sitting on her booster seat. She had worn her curly hair in fat little bunches. Now she was dead and naked underneath the sheet. Someone had taken the bobbles from her hair. She was so young that it hadn’t even grown long enough for proper pigtails. His niece, a little baby.

  
God in heaven, she looked just like Angelica had at that age.

  
Ray watched, a thousand miles away, as he pivoted, slow as molasses, toward Sharma. His fists took forever to clench, between one pained breath and the next. He watched like a stranger as he drew his elbow back.

  
And then the punch jolted through him, and Sharma’s head snapped back, and Ray was kneeling on the guy’s chest, and blood was pouring from the bastard’s nose, and both fists hurt, and the pain stabbed up Ray’s arms, all the way to his shoulders, and he’d split the skin of his knuckles, but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop punching, couldn’t even want to, and he was Pa, and he was vengeance, and that was okay. That was fucking fantastic. There were people grabbing him, pulling him, trying to drag him off, but all he could think of was putting his fist in that fat, that hated face, and pounding it to a pulp, and how it would never, never, never be enough.

  
And there was yelling, a lot of yelling and some of it was him. He heard that, heard himself pour venom in two languages. And he heard the people shouting, and yeah, _si può urlare tanto quanto vuoi, figli di puttana pompinaro. Non me ne frega un cazzo._ This was normal, this was right, and wasn’t that what should happen, when someone killed family, when someone killed a kid? Let them scream.

  
Someone had their arm around his throat, choking him, pulling him back, and even as the world went red, he still kept punching. And they were dragging him, off, up, away, and he was swinging wildly, kicking now as his fists met empty air. Beside the struggling men stood Armando, there at his shoulder, hunched. His brother’s fists were clenched, like his, and he was staring at their victim with a fierce and feral hate.  
~*~  
  
When the world came back again, his throat hurt. Not just his throat. His neck, his shoulders, and the muscles of his arms and back. Fight. He’d been in a fight. He raised his fingers to feel his throat and winced. His voice-box hurt. Someone had choked him. For a moment he thought that it was Pa, then he remembered that the old man was dead.

 

He did a quick inventory, eyes still shut. His skin felt tender. There would be bruises, on his face and on his chest. Other than that, it was only his hands. He blinked his eyes open and looked. Huh, he really was ham-fisted now. Someone had taped the knuckles up on his right hand.

  
He blinked, woozily. His head felt really… peculiar. Not concussion peculiar. Waking up in hospital peculiar, as though he was doped up on strong painkillers.

  
He sat up, and the world wobbled, and he remembered.  


“Oh God,” he groaned and covered his face.

  
“You’re awake.”

  
Agent Cash was sitting at the far side of the room on a chair that faced the wrong way. He had his arms folded across the back, resting his chin on it. He watched Ray warily, the chair a shield between them as though he was a lion tamer, preparing to fend off a dangerous animal.

  
Ray swung his hips round, planted his feet on the floor, and grabbed the edge of the cot. His hands clutched the metal frame as he tried to steady himself. The room had a tendency to swim. Military style cot, he told himself, trying to focus on his surroundings. Something Benny would probably sleep on. But this wasn’t a barracks. It was a cell.

  
“What am I doing here?”

  
“You attacked Agent Sharma.”

  
“He killed Angie…” Ray faltered to a stop. No, Angelica was safe. He blinked. That wasn’t the little girl’s name. Her name was…

  
It came into his head. Not his brother’s voice - his brother had no tongue - but the knowledge of her name.

  
“Chiara,” he whispered and looked up at Armando. “Her name was Chiara.”

  
Armando nodded and sat beside him on the bed. The ghost’s head sank against his chest and his shoulders began to shake as he was wracked with silent sobs.

  
Ray reached out to wipe his brother’s face and touched nothing. Armando was gone.

  
“He’s here now?”

  
“Not anymore,” Ray said, turning back to the agent.

  
Cash nodded. Ray found himself suddenly respecting the guy. He was taking this in his stride. Taking it seriously. Creeped out, definitely, but professional, not scared.

  
“Are you able to talk,” Cash asked. “I can come back later if you need time.”

  
Time for what? Oh… now Ray got it. This wobbly feeling. He’d been tranqued.

  
“You sure you want that? The drugs to clear my system? ‘Cause even I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  
Cash looked at him appraisingly. Probably trying to figure out if he was a dangerous lunatic or if he really did see ghosts. After a moment Cash nodded, seeming unfazed. “You’re a practical man,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll do what you can to get out of here.”

  
 _They’re gonna let me go?  Well, that’s good to know._ “Yeah. Yeah, I can talk.” Ray met the other man’s gaze, as steadily as he could, considering the way the room kept tilting. The FBI agent didn’t look so much like the boy next door anymore. He looked like a Fed. “So let’s talk,” Ray told him, dryly. “And if you’re good, I won’t try to beat you to death.”

  
Cash actually laughed at that. Ray felt the corner of his mouth lift. He remembered Johnson, pretending to be a doctor. That guy would have probably pissed himself.

  
“You’ll be glad to know that you didn’t beat Agent Sharma to death.” Cash raised an eyebrow. “Though his nose will never look the same and he’s missing a few teeth.”

  
Ray made a scornful face. “Like I care about Sharma.”

  
“Let’s talk about something you do care about.” Cash stood, flipped his chair round, and sat back down. Crossed his legs, shoved his hands in his pockets. Ray smiled, recognising the tactic, having employed it himself, earlier today. Claim space, look relaxed, freak out the bad guy. _So… I’m the bad guy now?_

  
“Go on.”

  
“Firstly, Agent Sharma did not kill your niece or your brother.”

  
“Someone did,” Ray sneered. “And I’m betting it was you guys.”

  
“Listen, Detective Vecchio, I don’t know where you get your ideas about the FBI from, but we don’t do that kind of thing.”

  
“Nah. You just drag honest citizens away from their jobs and families, shove ‘em in a morgue with dead bodies.” Ray swallowed. There was a sour taste on his tongue as though he’d been sick or brought up bile. He made  a bitter face and looked at Cash. “What the hell was the point of showing me his body? You didn’t need me to identify him. You know who he was. I never even met him before.”

  
“I know.” Cash sounded strangely miserable. Ray felt a twinge of sympathy tugging in his gut. “The whole thing seems...” He paused for a moment, turned his head and smiled at the door. “Sadistic,” the man said, obviously for the benefit of whoever was listening. Then he turned back to Ray.  “Believe me,” he said. “We didn’t all think this was a good idea.”

  
“So what the fuck was the idea? Keep hitting me over the head and see if I cracked?”

  
Cash paused and Ray had an unexpected thought. That was probably _exactly_ what they were trying to do. After all, he’d not been particularly rational in his dealings with the Feds. They’d obviously put years of planning into this op - just forgot to factor in the crazy cop the whole thing hinged on. Maybe they wanted to check  if he was mentally up to this gig.

  
Cash, however, neither confirmed nor denied Ray’s suspicions. “Part of the reason,” the agent said, “was that you seemed reluctant to believe us when we first told you about your brother. We thought if you saw him it might bring the reality of the situation home to you -”

  
“I believed he was real when you dragged me in here,” Ray snapped.

  
“Yes.” Cash sighed. “But not when the bodies were flown in. And then you were sick, so -”

  
“And you thought this would make me feel better how?”

  
“It wasn’t my idea,” Cash said tersely.

  
“Who’s then? Sharma’s? You know your boss is a piece of shit, right?”

  
Cash folded his arms across his chest. “He’s a fine man,” he said. “He’s dedicated his entire professional career to fighting organised crime and -”

  
“He’s still a piece of shit,” Ray said, tiredly. “And he killed Armando and Chiara.”

  
Cash flushed. _Jeez,_ Ray thought. _Idealistic and loyal... he really is like Benny._

  
“Why would he do that?” Cash asked. “He’s not a criminal.”

  
“Motive,” Ray said, “and opportunity.”

  
“What would his motive be?”

  
Ray blinked, muddily, his head drifting down. He was suddenly woozy, the adrenaline of waking up in a cell wearing off. He’d worn himself out arguing and he really wanted to lie down. He couldn’t quite wrap his mind around the situation, or at least, he couldn’t frame it in words yet. “Timing,” he said. _Motive... what’s Sharma’s motive?_ “I’d told you I wasn’t gonna do it, and he dies the same night. The shape of the thing. Seems… something seems… off.”

  
“So,” Cash said. “You’ve got no proof?”

  
Ray’s head jerked up again and the room snapped back into focus. “So, you saying there _is_ proof?”

  
Cash shifted a little, betraying his discomfort.

  
“I’ve told you before; the FBI doesn’t operate like that.”

  
“That’s interesting.” Ray studied at the other man. “That’s very interesting. When Johnson told me the FBI hadn’t done it, he believed it. But you… you’re not so sure.”

  
Cash looked at him steadily, bleakly. “Detective, regardless of what you or I believe, there are larger issues at stake. I know you don’t want to hear it, but the Langoustinis, the Iguanas, that whole branch of the Mob - they’re monsters. They need to be taken down.”

  
“And I’m the man to do it?”

  
“You’re the only man to do it. There’s nobody else who can.” Cash paused, letting  his words sink in before continuing. “I know you want to protect your family, but you have to think of other families too. The Iguanas have caused a lot of suffering over the years, not just in Vegas, but all over the country. And as for the Langoustinis… look what they did to your family. We need to take down these people. Will you help?”

  
 _Of, fucking hell. I actually kinda want to..._  Ray leant forward over his knees, and scrubbed his face, managed not to blurt the thought out and commit himself. Not now, not when they had him at such a disadvantage.

  
“You’ve said you want vengeance for your brother’s murder. It’s obvious you want to avenge the death of your niece. How better to find out what happened than to go undercover as Armando?”

  
Ray straightened, stared at the other man. That was a thought. That was a damned good thought…

  
“Hang on. You just said you guys don’t deal like that. What if I go undercover, figure out who killed them, and take out a hit of my own? You think of that?”

  
Cash’s face gave a wry twist, as though he’d just been busted. “You’re an officer of the law,” he said. “I’m sure that when it comes to it, you’ll do the right thing.”

  
“You must know me better than I know myself,” Ray said. “Because I’d like to think that, but I don’t know.”

  
“Deal with that bridge when we come to it.”

  
“Or burn it.” Ray frowned then started coughing. They’d let him out of the hospital, but his chest still hurt. Damn… his antibiotics were sitting in the medicine cabinet at home. What time was it anyway?

  
“You want some water?”

  
“Please.”

  
Cash got to his feet, and tapped on the door. “Can we have some water?”

  
Ray buried his head in his hands. What was he going to do? Cash was right, somebody had killed his brother, and his brother’s little girl. And somebody was going to get away with it -  mobsters always did. Maybe the FBI had been involved, maybe they hadn’t, but Ray would never know if he didn’t investigate it.

  
Then again, Armando had been - no two ways about it - a wicked man. And yet, Ray felt an appalling sympathy for him. He might never know what had happened to turn him into the Bookman, but he did know how easily that could have been him. Twenty years ago, he had watched as Frank Zuko took on his father’s mantle. Ray did jack shit as Marco Matroni was pinned down by two guys. He just watched as Zuko drove a basketball into Marco’s face, over and over again. To this day, Ray had never forgiven himself for failing his friend. That kind of thing either deadened you, or ate you up with shame. Armando, growing up in the heart of the Mob, had probably seen far more, and far worse, than that.

  
“Here’s your water.” Cash was standing at a careful arm’s length from him, proffering a styrofoam cup. Ray took it, filing away the useful information that, despite his casual air, Cash was still nervous around him, and that somebody had decided that giving him a glass was a bad idea. _What do they think, I’m gonna try to shiv my way outta here?_ He smirked, and tilted the water down his throat. He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was. It hurt to swallow, but it was good.

  
“If I do it,” he said, and stopped. He hadn’t been going to say anything. He sighed, focusing on his hands. His fingers were shaking slightly, had been since he woke up. He willed them to stop, but they didn’t. “Ma can’t ever know, and if I do this thing, she’ll find out. There’s gonna be big trials, it’ll be in all the papers. Once she finds out I was undercover as a guy who looked just like me, she’ll figure it out.”

  
“Not necessarily,” Cash said quickly. “We can move to protect the identity of the informant. In fact, that would be standard procedure in such an operation. We wouldn’t want to endanger you anymore than necessary. Any information that might be used by the Family to identify the infiltrator would be permanently sealed. Your mother need never know.”

  
“She’s gonna know I’m undercover.” He blinked, startled that his mouth had betrayed him. He hadn’t meant to let them know that he was considering this. “She’s the same age her own Ma was when she died. I mean…” He realised, as he looked at Cash, that he was doing it again, just as he had in the hall outside the morgue… broadcasting his weakness on every channel. Once again, he couldn’t seem to stop. “I don’t wanna give her a heart attack. I don’t wanna get back and find that she’s dead.”

  
Cash sighed. “I’m sorry. We can’t make any guarantees. As you’ve pointed out, Detective, we might be the FBI, but we can’t know everything. All I can say is, we really truly would look after your family.”

  
Ray nodded. _What about Benny,_ he thought, but didn’t say. There was no way he could explain that friendship to the FBI. He didn’t even understand it himself, how he had come so quickly to think of Benny as more than a friend. Maybe there had always been part of him that knew Armando was missing, that craved a closer brother than Paulie. Or maybe it was that Benny was one pure thing in a filthy world, the kind of man that Ray would have wanted to be, that he never could be. Pa, and Father Curry, and the Zukos of this world had made sure of that.

  
“Listen,” Cash said. “We’ll be taking you home soon. You don’t have to think about it now, you look pretty beat.”

  
“Yeah. Being kidnapped off the street, emotionally tortured, beaten up, drugged and locked up will do that to a guy.” Ray gave a dizzy laugh.

  
“Well, yeah. I suppose it will,” Cash smiled, and for a moment it was like they were buddies laughing together. Which was stupid, because one thing Ray couldn’t afford to forget was that these guys were not on his side. Cash reached forward and patted his knee, a friendly gesture that would have been welcome from Benny. Ray sat up straight, then froze. The room was listing to the right again, as though he was on a boat. It seemed to have got worse in the last few minutes. Cash was still talking.

  
“We’ve got you a change of clothes,” he said. “You won’t want to be seen walking through your neighbourhood dressed like that.”

  
Ray looked down, and noticed for the first time that his shirt and his suit were spattered with blood. _Damn,_ he thought, _another one bites the dust,_ and laughed again. “Guess not.”

  
“So,” Cash said, “I’ll leave you to get changed, and you’ll probably want to put some ointment on. We cleaned up your face, but I didn’t want you to wake up and think that we’d undressed you…”

  
God. Ray tensed, and moved back on the bed, away from the other man. He shook his head, and clutched his jacket lapels, pulling them across his chest to cover him.

  
“That was how he started,” he blurted out, and God, what was wrong with him? _Shut up,_ he thought, desperately, and didn’t shut up. “Gave me ointment, told me to take my clothes off, and put it on my… where I’d been hit by the belt.”

  
Cash’s face looked strange for a moment, as a flutter of unguarded expressions crossed it. Shock, anger, and regret. Holy shit, now Ray had the FBI pitying him.

  
“I’m really sorry that had to happen.”

  
“It didn’t. Didn’t have to happen. I was just too fucking stupid to stop it.”

  
“You weren’t stupid. You were a child.”

  
“He groomed me,” Ray said. “Just like you guys are doing. Made me do things I didn’t want.”

  
Cash closed his eyes, looking pained. “I’m really, really sorry.”

  
Ray nodded, and hugged his clothes around himself, lifted his knees in front of him as a shield, resting his head on them.

  
“I don’t feel right,” he said and then it dawned on him. “What the fuck did you guys put in my water?”

  
“What?”

  
Ray opened his eyes. When he managed to focus on Cash’s face, the other man looked angry.

  
“What did I do now,” Ray grumbled, and… oh, that was new. He sounded drunk. “It’s not my fucking fault you spiked my drink.”

  
Cash stood up, went and banged on the door. Ray lay on his side, arms wrapped around his knees, legs curled up to his chest. He could just about make out what Cash was saying…

  
“Who authorised that? There was no need to…”

  
 _Oh, that’s alright then,_ Ray thought, woozily. _Cash didn’t do this._ He might not be his friend, but at least he wasn’t his enemy.

  
“I’m sorry, Sir, but they heard him arguing and thought you’d be safer if…”

  
“If what? You drugged him into a stupor? You go tell them that…”

  
Ray closed his eyes and let the world drift. Actually, he wasn’t angry. He wasn’t frightened and he wasn’t sad. He wasn’t anything anymore. _I could get used to this…_

  
He didn’t know how long it was, but eventually Cash was talking to him again. He was kneeling at a discreet distance from the bed, trying to get his attention. _Not scared of me now,_ Ray realised. _He’s keeping a comfort zone, trying not to freak me out._ Ray was sleepy, and slow, and comfortable, but he knew what the other man was doing. Completely different body language this time, again familiar from his own work. Not, ‘claim your territory,’ or ‘don’t spook the crazy guy,’ but ‘don’t upset the victim.’ The FBI knew everything now, everything about Curry. That probably mattered. When Ray woke up enough, he was probably going to care.

  
“Detective Vecchio,” Cash was saying. “Can you hear me?”

  
“Yellow.” He smiled. “I mean, hello.”

  
“I’m going to take you home now. Can you sit up?”

  
Ray pondered that. “Gimme a coupla minutes,” he slurred.

  
It was probably longer than a couple of minutes before his eyes opened again. Cash was sitting in his lion-taming chair, with a newspaper spread out on his lap. Looked like he’d been there awhile.

  
Ray moved. “’Kay. I’m up.” He wobbled on the edge of the cot, blinking. His eyes were stinging, but his head felt a little bit clearer. “I’m going home?”

  
“Yeah.”

  
“I don’t think…” He paused. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, as though he’d been to the dentist, and his voice sounded strange. He tried again. “I don’t think I can stand up by myself.”

  
“You want to wait a while?”  


Ray groaned. “What do you think? How long have I been here?”

  
Cash looked at his watch, pulled his face. “It’s five o’clock.”  


“Crap! I was supposed to come straight back from dropping Tony off at school. They’ll have the search parties out…”

  
“Do you want to phone your family? Tell them you’ll be home?”

  
“Yeah.” Ray reached out a hand to the cell phone that Cash offered. “Thanks,” he said and realised it was the first time he’d expressed anything other than animosity to the other man. _Jeez, I’m losing my edge._

  
“Ma? Yeah, Ma, it’s Ray. Yeah - yeah. I didn’t mean to worry you - Yeah, I know I’ve been ill, I was there, remember? Jeez… you didn’t need to phone round the hospitals - Tony said what? No I was not battling mobsters outside the school. Is Maria there? Put Maria on the phone.”

  
He glanced across at Cash, who was looking suspiciously amused. Ray glared, covered the mouthpiece. “You want ‘em, laughing boy?” Cash bit his lip, trying to cover up a grin.

  
“Hey, Maria - what, Frannie?” _Fuck_ _, just what I need..._ Ray rolled his eyes and tried not to sigh.

 

“Where’s Maria? What?” His voice squeaked. “Gone to the station? When? Holy shit! You’d better phone ‘em.”

  
 _Oh God. Now she’s doing the ‘let’s talk about it’ Oprah thing._ “Yeah, Frannie, I’m fine.” He tried not to let his irritation bleed into  his voice. _Maybe this is just some practical joke they’re all playing on me ._ He nearly laughed. _Yeah, if only. “_ Don’t worry about Tony - what, Sammy too?”

 

 _Crap._ He shifted the phone to his good hand, covered his face with the bad. “Holy shit, the school called?” He shook his head. _Hang on, what did Frannie just say? The kids said what?_

  
“No,” Ray snapped. “I don’t know anything about it - What? Yeah, I know. Kids, what can you do? Yeah - No - WHAT?” He stared up at the ceiling. “I do not sound drunk.”   _God give me strength._ “Belligerent? That’s a five dollar word right there -” _Great...Now she’s getting snippy with me. “_ No,” he said, sarcastically. “I’m not being sarcastic - What? I dunno, maybe I got hit on the head once too often, you ever think of that?” He heaved out a sigh. “Okay, okay… I’m sorry I snapped at you.” He rolled his eyes at Cash. Frannie kept on talking. _Just shut up and get off the phone already . “_ Yeah, I love you too, Sis - Hey... whaddaya mean now you know I’m drunk?” _Last time I bother trying to be nice..._ “Look, just tell Ma I’m gonna be late.” He looked up at Cash. “How late?”

  
“An hour,” Cash said. “We can get you back in an hour.”

  
“Hey, Fran - Ma. Yeah, Ma, honest to God, I’m fine. I’ll be home by six. Yeah, I know what time dinner’s at.” He rolled his eyes. “If I’m late I’m late. I’m not hungry anyway - No, I don’t know where I am - No, I’m not drunk! Why do people keep asking me that? Jeez, Ma, who do you think I am? No, I told you, I’m not hungry. Yeah, yeah… okay. Fine. See you then.”  


He handed the phone back to Cash.

  
“Well, you guys officially scared my family half to death. The kids in the neighbourhood think I’m Batman, off fighting crime. Ma thought I was sleeping with the fishes, Frannie thought I’d had an accident, and Maria’s at my workplace, telling Welsh God knows what.” He shook his head. “And you guys wonder why I don’t want to trust my life to you.”

  
“Your behaviour hasn’t exactly run according to our script.”

  
“Glad I can surprise you.”

  
Ray pulled himself to his feet, and swayed. Cash grabbed his arm to stop him falling over, then backed off as he steadied himself. He’d been feeling okay until he stood… Jeez, he’d been lying on that stupid cot for hours.

  
“I got you a coat,” Cash said. “So you can cover up.”

  
“Thanks.”

  
It was a surprisingly handsome coat. Trench coat, silk lined, made of soft wool, and it actually fit him. Ray buttoned it up slowly, his fingers feeling as fat and stupid as his tongue and his brain. If he sounded like he felt, no wonder Frannie and Ma had asked him if he was drunk.

  
“You like the coat?”  


“Yeah,” Ray nodded. “Nice.”

 

“You can keep it.”

  
“You trying to bribe me now?”

  
“You seem to be unbribeable. We’ve thrown enough financial incentives at you, I don’t think a coat is going to make any difference.”

  
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere either.” He took a step toward the door and staggered. “Woah, Nelly. I’m gonna have to lean on you.”

  
“Okay.” Cash put an arm around him. “Here we go.”

  
The corridor didn’t seem as menacing this time, though he still turned his head away as they passed the morgue. The parking garage was an empty, echoing vault. Ray closed his eyes for a moment and felt one of his ghosts following him, its footsteps out of sync with his own. Didn’t feel like Armando. Felt like…

  
He wasn’t going to look at his father.

  
By the time the car had slid out into the sun, Ray’s head was propped against the passenger side window, and he was drifting again, lulled by the engine. Part of him was aware that if he could just be bothered to keep his eyes open he’d know exactly where they’d taken him, but to be honest, it didn’t seem to matter anymore.  


After a while, Cash tuned the radio to a golden oldie’s station. Ray shifted in his seat, and fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian Translations:
> 
>  
> 
> “Antonio, sai benissimo che questo non ha nulla che fare con il mio ferimento.” - "Antonio, you know perfectly well that had nothing to do with me being shot."
> 
> “Potrebbe invece,” Tony replied obstinately. “Potrebbe esserci stata una ricaduta.” - "It might have been," Tony replied obstinately. "It might have been a relapse."
> 
>  “Dopo essere stato ferito alla spalla più di un anno fa?” - "From being shot in the shoulder over a year ago?"
> 
> "È passato troppo tempo." - "It's too long ago/Too much time has passed."
> 
> “Zio, è la verità.” - "Uncle, it's the truth."
> 
> “No, non lo è," - "No, it's not." - “E proprio tu, più di tutti, dovresti saperlo.” "And you, of all people, should know that."
> 
> “A volte le bugie sono cose buone.” - "Sometimes a lie is a good thing." 
> 
> “Per favore?” - “Please?”
> 
>  
> 
> (And now for the vulgar stuff.)
> 
>  
> 
> "Si può urlare tanto quanto vuoi, figli di puttana pompinaro. Non me ne frega un cazzo." - "Scream as much as you want to, sons of whores. I don't give a fuck."
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks JDD for enriching all of our Italian! If it weren't for her you'd be stuck with my ungrammatical and impoverished attempts - which trust me, none of you want to hear.


	7. Chapter 7

  
There wasn’t much traffic on Kennedy and they made good time. Ray was just about awake when they pulled up to the curb and stopped. He rubbed his eyes and started to open the passenger door. Cash put a hand on his arm.

  
“You sure you’re alright?”

  
Ray smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I reckon I can make it across the road by myself.”

  
Cash nodded solemnly and let him go.

North Octavia was deserted. _Thank God,_ Ray thought. He was weaving slightly. _I hope the neighbours aren’t watching._ He looked over his shoulder. Cash was still there, parked discreetly at the corner. _Keeping an eye on me, in case I fall on my ass before I get inside._ It made Ray feel a little bit better.

He made it to the front door okay, but when he tried to get his key in the lock he missed, scratched the wood instead. He was trying again when the door flew open.

“Fuck,” he blurted out as he stumbled over Frannie.

She was little, but she was tough. Instead of keeling over when a guy of six foot barrelled into her, she braced herself and caught him before he could fall.

“Ray, what the hell?”

“Sorry, Frannie, I didn’t mean to –”

“You are, aren’t you? You are drunk.”

  
“I might as well be,” he muttered.

She stood back and gave him a slap.

“Ow. What’s that for?” He rubbed his cheek. At least he felt slightly more awake.

“That’s for running off and getting wasted when…” She paused, looking at the hand he was resting on his face. “What happened there?” she asked, gently touching the bandages on his knuckles.

“S’okay. They’re not broken. Just kinda cut up.”

“You been fighting?”

“You could say that.” Ray shrugged his coat from his shoulders and nearly dropped it. Frannie reached out to take it – then froze. Ray stared at her, puzzled. “What?”

Frannie screamed and put her fingers in her mouth.

“What the fuck? Frannie, what?” God Almighty, he hadn’t seen her that scared since Guy Rankin tried to…

She backed off down the corridor, letting the coat fall to the floor.

What the fuck? He spread his arms out in mute appeal.

“It’s alright, Ray,” she said, babbling. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you’ve done, we’ll sort it out…”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

He used the wall to steady himself as he followed her into the kitchen. Angie and Little Tony were sitting with their heads bent together. “Tony,” Angie sounded frustrated, “division is easy. It’s just your multiplication tables, only backward. Look, like this…”

Tony shifted and sighed, obviously bored. He turned to see who had just come into the room and his eyes went big.

“Oh, wow, Uncle Ray. You killed the bad guy.”

Ray blinked and looked down.

Oh crap. How had he forgotten that? He blushed.

“I had a nosebleed,” he said.

“No you didn’t,” Tony said. “I can see a bruise on your neck.”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Ray said, flatly.

“Really?”

“Really. Don’t sound so disappointed about it.”

He dropped heavily onto a chair. Tony pouted. Ray groaned and let his head fall with a thunk on the kitchen table. Just what he needed – Tony thinking he was some kinda crime fighting superhero. As if what happened outside the school wasn’t bad enough.

“I love you, Uncle Ray,” said Tony. Ray rolled his head on the table, and peered at the boy’s shiny face, now on a level with his own. His nephew was looking at him like he was a rock star. _God, I can’t believe the kids saw me covered in blood…_

Tony’s smile still warmed him. It had been a very cold and lonely day.

“I love you too, kid.”

Tony leant over, clumsily, and kissed him on the cheek. Ray wondered if Chiara’d had the same colour eyes as Tony, green, like Ray’s… like Armando’s, or if they’d been brown like Angelica’s.

Frannie folded her arms, spoke with all the authority of an Aunt. “Angie, Tony,” she said, “you can do this in the living room. Wait there till your Mom gets back. Me and Ray have to talk.”

Perfect. A sisterly chat. He supposed he should be glad she was sounding calmer now, but –

“Don’t give me that look,” Ray grumbled. “I’ve had a bad day.”

“I can see that.” She pulled up a chair and sat next to him, stiffly. Oh, great. It was written across her face – she wasn’t freaking out anymore, but she didn’t trust him. She already thought he was mobbed up. And it wasn’t like he could tell her the truth: he’d been kidnapped and drugged by the FBI. If he tried that, then he’d probably wake up in a straightjacket.  

He closed his eyes. _Oh God,_ he thought, _don’t fall apart in front of Frannie._ He pulled himself together and tried to smile at her.

“Sorry, Sis,” he said. There it was again. _‘Sorry.’_ The thing was… he really was sorry.

“It’s okay, Ray,” she said gently. “What happened?”

“I can’t really talk about it.”

“Was it Guy Rankin?”

“What?”

“You know, you can tell me. I know you were upset when… when he tried to hurt me.”

“Yeah,” Ray said. “Yeah, I was upset. And he’s backed the hell off. And he’s gonna stay backed off if he knows what’s good for him.”

Frannie bit her lower lip.

Ray narrowed his eyes, concern for Frannie helping him focus. “Why are you asking? He been giving you trouble again?”

“No,” she said, throwing up a palm in flat denial. “No, that’s not it.” Ray nodded. His sister was an open book. If she said Rankin wasn’t bothering her, then the guy wasn’t bothering her.

“So,” he asked. “Why are you asking?”

“Well, you said…” she dropped her voice. “You said you’d kill him.”

“I say a lotta things. Doesn’t mean I do ‘em.” He sat back in his chair and winced at the ache in his shoulders. When the damn drugs wore off, he was gonna hurt like hell. “Is that what you think this is about?”

“I don’t know. What is it about?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “And no, that doesn’t mean that I’m a crooked cop, or that I’m mobbed up, or whatever else you’re worrying about. It just means I can’t talk about it.”

“You’re covered in blood, Ray,” Frannie said in a small voice. “That means it’s bad.”

Ray stared at her, and something caved inside him. It was hardly her fault that she had completely misunderstood the situation. And even when she thought the worst of him, she was still trying to help.

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked. “Yeah, it’s bad.”

“What,” she said, her chair squeaking on the linoleum as she scooted in closer. “What is it Ray? You don’t have to tell me everything, but just… something. There must be something you can say.”

Ray stared for a long time at her hand resting on his. He couldn’t bear to look at her face.

“I saw two bodies today,” he said into the silence. “A father and his child. Little girl. Little…” He blinked and watched as the tears dropped, landing on the back of his sister’s hand, trickling over her skin. The world was still running too slow. “Someone killed ‘em. A father and his little girl.”

“Oh, Ray,” she said and put her arms around him. “I’m sorry.” He hugged her back, a hard and protective embrace. _Oh God, she’s crying. I made my sister cry._ She sat back with a watery smile. “And… can you tell me who did this to you?”

"No," Ray said, shaking his head. He desperately wanted to tell someone - but not Frannie. Poor kid – Pa had messed her up badly enough as it was. He forced himself to remain silent.

Frannie tried again. “Who hit you?”

“No,” Ray said, firmly now. “I can’t.” Then he laughed as the world tilted to the left and back again. “But you should see the other guy.”

Frannie’s grin was genuine when she stood up. “Alright then Ray… listen. You’d better go get cleaned up, before Ma sees you.”

“Where is Ma?”

“She was worried when you said you weren’t hungry. She’s gone to get some sfogliatelle for dessert.”

“At this time of night?”

“You know Ma. She’s got her sources.”

Ray laughed. “Suppose I should be glad she didn’t start from scratch.”

“Don’t think she wouldn’t have… but you know the pastry. Takes forever.”

“Yeah, well… smells good,” Ray said. “Whatever’s in the oven.”

“You should know by now. Anytime she thinks you’re hurt, she makes up for it in the kitchen.”

“No wonder I was a fat child,” Ray said sourly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s okay. And you weren’t fat. You were just a little chubby.”

_“Soft.”_

Great. Just when he thought things couldn’t get any worse.

“Look at you,” sneered Pa, perched on the table, “crying in the kitchen like a girl. You always were a cry-baby.”

Oh Fuck. Ray stared up at the Old Man. How the hell was he ever going to get rid of him?

“Ray?” Frannie was patting his arm. “Are you alright? What are you looking at?”

“You were a cry-baby then, you’re a cry-baby now. Everyone’s whipping boy. You think I didn’t see you in there, spilling your guts to the FBI? Your brother was twice the man you are.”

“Frannie,” Ray whispered. “I’m not feeling very well. I gotta go lie down.”

“Okay, Ray,” she said, concerned. “I’ll call you when Ma gets back.”

Ray nodded and bolted, scrambling up the stairs.

When he got to his bedroom, his father was waiting.

“For a moment there, when you were kicking the crap out of that cop, I thought, maybe the boy’s got some balls after all. But look at you. They got you on a hook, don’t they?”

“Fuck off, Pop,” Ray muttered and dropped on the bed.

“Why’d you have to tell him that anyway? That FBI guy? I had to hear it like that.” Pa stood over him, fists clenched. “My son the faggot. So you bent over for the priest, did you?” Ray squeezed his eyes shut, and raised his arms over his head, as though to shield himself from blows. He could feel it, Pa leaning into his face… oh God, that bourbon breath. “Did you like it?”

And Ray was sick all down the front of his suit.  
~*~  
  
He changed into the first clean clothes he could find, a Chicago PD tracksuit. Normally he wouldn’t be caught dead in it. It was strictly used for painting fences, fixing engines, or other messy jobs around the house, but it was the quickest thing he could get into. He didn’t even wear it to the gym.

He shoved his suit into a trash bag, feeling like a suspect disposing of evidence. He supposed that his drycleaner had seen worse in the time he’d been partnered up with Benny, but he knew he’d never wear the thing again, even if the woman could get the damned mess out. Besides, there was enough gossip in the neighbourhood about his exploits without him turning up at the laundry with blood-stained clothing.

Waste of a good suit, but it wasn’t be the first one to end up in the trash. And, with his luck, wouldn’t be the last.

He tied up the bag up firmly and threw it to the far side of the room, where he wouldn’t have to see it.

Then he crawled in under his sheets, fully clothed except for shoes, and hid his face under the pillow.

Okay, so he was definitely coming down, or sobering up, or whatever you wanted to call it. This was why he didn’t get drunk. It never made you feel better for long enough. He’d drunk too much maybe three or four times in his life, and even considering how much he didn’t want to be like Pa, he just couldn’t see the attraction. A glass of wine with dinner, sure. Getting hammered or high... How the hell did people do this to themselves? Why?

At some point he was going to have to get out of bed, wash the damn taste of puke from his mouth, but he really, really, really didn’t want to move. He curled into the cocoon of warmth, breathing in the scent of freshly ironed sheets, warm cloth, fabric softener. ‘Petally soft...’ uhm... something or other. How did that damn jingle go? He laughed quietly against the pillow. He should watch more commercials. He didn’t even know what you called this smell. Sweet, maybe. Something not really flowery, but nice. Warm.

There was a knocking on his door. Insistent, but polite. That must be Ma.

“Raimondo?”

“Yeah, Ma?”

“Dinner’s on the table.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine. Just not hungry.”

“I made lasagne.”

Simple, comfort food. “Thanks, Ma, but I’m really not hungry.”

A long-suffering sigh on the other side of the door. “I’ll leave some on a plate for you.”

“Grazie.”

Ma huffed her disapproval and her footsteps could be heard vanishing down the stairs.

Ten minutes later, there was another knock. A lot louder, a lot less polite. Definitely not Ma.

“I got your boss downstairs,” came Maria’s angry voice. “He wants to know what the hell happened, and so do I.”

“Lieutenant Welsh?” He groaned. Here he was, in a tracksuit for heaven’s sake, and he was sick, and tired, and still half stoned, and… fantastic. Just… fucking fantastic. Welsh was downstairs. “Why’d you have to drag him into it?”

“Because we got a phone call from Tony’s school, saying you pulled a gun on some guy, and then you vanished off the face of the earth.”

“I did not pull my gun,” Ray said wearily.

The door swung open and Ray heard his sister stepping into the room, the click as she turned on the light.

“Hey, get out from under there. I’m talking to you, Ray. Look at me.”

“No,” Ray said, feeling just as he sounded – like a sulky kid.

“Well, the least you can do is tell me what the hell happened.”

Ray had a sudden wild urge to tell her everything. “It’s a long story,” he said, and felt a laugh crack in his throat. _Yeah, a really long story, starting the day I was born._ If he told her, would it all go away? The FBI was probably still listening. He wondered how much it would mess with their plans if he just came out with it all.

No. If he told Maria, she’d have to keep the secret from Ma and Frannie. And besides, this was never going away.

He rolled on his side, presenting her with his back, still wrapping the pillow round his head. She sat with a sigh on the edge of the bed and patted his shoulder.

“I can listen.”

“Yeah. I know you can. But I can’t say.”

“Okay.” He could hear the scowl in her voice. “But you’ve got to stop scaring us.”

“This one wasn’t my fault.”

“I know,” she softened. “None of them were. But… For the love of God, Ray. How do you think I felt when I got back and the school called? They’d been trying to get hold of us all day. And then when I got there all any of the kids could talk about was you taking off after a bad guy.”

“They mighta embellished it a little.”

“But something did happen, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“And you can’t say?”

“No. I can’t.”

“Okay. Well, you’ll have to tell your boss. Ma invited him to dinner.”

“What?” Ray pulled the pillow off his head and stared at her. “Holy Mother of God,” he said, “what for?”

“You know Ma. Somebody turns up at the door, she decides to feed them.” Maria was looking at him oddly. “What happened to your neck?”

Jeez, that bruise must be purpling up nicely.

“Choke hold,” he snapped, “if you really wanna know. Some guy throttled me, okay?”

“God, Ray… have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m fine. Just…” he shut his eyes and flopped his head back down. “How many times do I gotta say it? Really not hungry.”

“Okay,” Maria said gently. “But Ma’s down there feeling unappreciated. Your boss is stuck at the head of the table and he looks petrified.” She nudged his shoulder. “He needs some moral support. I wouldn’t have dragged him over here, but I was worried about you. Besides, you’re gonna have to talk to him eventually –”

“Kill me now,” Ray muttered, and burrowed deeper under the sheets.

“Come here, let me look at you.”

Ray groaned, and peeked out from under the pillow.

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were… you know. Look, I know you’re tired, but you might as well get it over with now. ”

“Do I have to?”

“You’re not that bad. He knows you’ve been ill, it doesn’t matter if you’re a bit off.” She gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Get it out of the way.”

“Yeah, right. Give me a minute…” He sat up and groaned as his muscles twinged.

Maria raised her eyes. “You planning on going for a run?”            

“Excuse me?”

“You normally wear pjs to bed. What’s with the sports gear?”

“I like to cover up. You gotta problem with that?”

“No. Jeez…” She got up off the bed, sounding like Frannie for a moment. “Bite my head off, why don’t you?” She paused at the door then, turned back. “Sorry,” she said. “Of course you do.”

“Of course I do what?”

“I mean, I know you like clothes, but I didn’t think about it. God, I feel so bad…”

“About what?”

“Teasing you about it. When you were a kid. It’s just… I shoulda thought.”

Ray gaped at her bewildered. “I got no clue what you’re talking about.”

She made a face. “Forget I said anything.”

Ray shook his head. The women in his family… who knew what they were thinking?

Maria gave him a sad smile, like she knew something he didn’t. “Wash your face before you come down.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Nah, you just look pale. The bruises aren’t that bad, apart from the neck.”

“Think I can get away with wearing a scarf?”

“Not in that outfit.” She sighed. “Sorry I was angry with you.”

“S’okay. I’m pretty angry at me, too.”

“I’ll see you downstairs then.”

Ray bowed to the inevitable. “Yeah, I’ll see ya.”

Dinner itself wasn’t so bad, though he couldn’t eat much. The soup he could handle, and he drank lots of water, but the lasagne was hard to swallow.  Ma fluttered her hands and demanded to know who had beaten her baby up, and what had happened to his throat, but she carefully kept her more embarrassingly maternal comments in Italian.

Other than that, everyone was trying their best to pretend it was just an ordinary meal. Sure, they were yelling at each other, just the same as usual, but nobody was yelling at him. It was all, “do you want some more salad, Ray,” and “you want another glass of water?” What was he, a guest?

To add to the general discomfort, Welsh had been seated at the head of the table. Maria had warned Ray about it, but it was still something of a shock. It was like coming home from school to find your head teacher on the couch. To be fair, Welsh looked every bit as bewildered as Ray. In fact, he looked like a puzzled bear… not the teddy bear type, the grizzly type. Ray couldn’t help wondering if he was keeping mental notes, so that he could judge his detective’s background level of crazy in case he messed up at work. Still, the lieutenant sat there politely enough, accepting seconds and thirds. Not as polite as Benny, but as long as he was eating, Ma was happy. Welsh smiled, trying and failing to make small talk, awkward and slightly stunned under the onslaught of noise. You’d think he’d be used to it, managing the bullpen, but apparently the Vecchios had him beat.

For once, the level of noise nearly had Ray beat. He seemed to have his head back together again, for the most part, and he didn’t feel like bursting into tears or yelling at someone anymore, but the inside of his skull was still spacey and strange. He seemed to be half a step behind everyone else in the conversation, which didn’t help matters, and with the best will in the world, he just didn’t want to be there. Not in his skull, not in the kitchen. Didn’t want his Ma looking at him with those worried eyes, didn’t want Angelica to be so careful around him, not looking at his hands. Didn’t want any of it. Didn’t want to be sitting in this house, which his father had bought with his brother’s blood.

So, he sat, and stared at the plate, tried to eat, and pretended he wasn’t there.

He was just about holding it together when, with a clatter of feet, a gaggle of Tony’s friends turned up unannounced.

 _Oh God,_ Ray thought, as they stared at him. _I think I’m the main attraction._ He stared at Ma, hopelessly. He knew his mother – she wouldn’t do the American thing and send them packing. That would have been inhospitable. Anyone else would have said, ‘hey, come  back later, we’re eating here,’ or ‘why are you out so late on a school night,’ or ‘don’t you have homes to go to?’

Ma, being Ma, laid out extra place settings. Ray shrank back in his chair, wishing he could vanish. Sammy in particular sat as close to him as possible, spellbound, watching his attempts to eat as though he expected him to break into song.

“Hey, Ma,” he said, giving up on dinner. “That was lovely… but I’m kinda beat.”

“You hardly ate a thing.”

“Nah, I’m fine. I’ll get something later if I’m hungry in the middle of the night…”

“What about the sfogliatelle?”

“Sounds great. I’ll, uhm… I’ll have some later. Me and the Lieutenant have to talk.”

Welsh shot him a look of gratitude.

“As a matter of fact, Mrs Vecchio, I do need to discuss some police matters with your son. Dinner was…” Welsh smiled at his plate instinctively and spoke from the heart. “Dinner was absolutely delicious.”

Ma beamed at him. “I can wrap some up for you if –”

“Lieutenant,” Ray broke in. “I’ve got that report to give you.”

“Oh… yes. Report. Thank you for dinner, Mrs Vecchio, but we do have to go.”

“Are you a policeman too?” Sammy piped up, hopefully.

“Well, yes I am, son.”

“I wanna be a policeman when I grow up.”

“Well, maybe if you’re good you and your friends can visit the station sometime.”

They made their escape to the back garden amidst cries of ‘cool’ and ‘awesome.’ Ray looked at his boss sideways. “Don’t encourage ‘em, Sir, they only want a gun.”

“They’re boys,” Welsh said, indulgently. “Of course they want a gun. At least they don’t want to use them in bank robberies.”

“That’s true.”

“You seem to have made a good impression on them today.”

“Yeah, well. I promise not to do it again, Sir.”

Welsh made a grunt that was not entirely unlike a laugh, and followed Ray through the darkened garden. He stood, hands in pockets, looking up at the moon, not yet full. His breath frosted on the air.

Ray sat on one of the swings, watched the moon swim through clouds. He was dizzy – he could fall into the sky. _Where’s Benny,_ he wondered, and smiled. _Maybe he can see it too._

“Listen, Sir,” he said, speaking more slowly and deliberately than usual. “If we’re gonna talk about this, we should keep our voices down.”

“You mean the kids will be listening in?”

“Well, they’ll try. Probably won’t get past Ma, but you know how it is.” He cleared his throat. “And besides, the kids won’t be the only ones listening.”

Welsh raised his eyebrows. “The Feds?”

Ray nodded. “Not that there’s anything we can do about that. They probably know what we’re gonna say before we say it.”

“Vecchio,” Welsh sighed. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

Ray squirmed a bit beneath the weight of Welsh’s carefully neutral gaze. He pushed his heels into the sand, and the swing creaked back and forth. He wondered, absently, how long it had been since he’d oiled it. A while... he should do it while he remembered.

He looked back toward the house. Laughter drifted from the kitchen. Light shone from the window. Happy shouting. The smell of good food.

Welsh waited patiently for him to speak.

This mess was ruining his life, reaching out and sucking all the goodness out of everything he had. He’d traumatised the whole family, three times in just over a week. He’d acquired a new ghost; Pa was back; Angelica was probably scared of him; Tony was more than half in love with violence; Maria couldn’t stop treating him like a child. Even Frannie had thought he was crooked and, for all he knew, she still did. And Ma…

 _Oh God. Ma..._ Every time he looked at her, he thought of what she’d lost. She was going to see it in his eyes one day, that when he looked at her he hurt. Maybe on his (on their) birthday. She’d make a cake, a special meal, and he wouldn’t be able to eat it. The whole family had been planning to go to the park, watch the eclipse together. He wouldn’t be able to hide it, the something that hurt, and she’d think it was her fault.

And that was just his family. His career was going down the toilet as well. The FBI was asking if he worked for Zuko. And now… Fuck's sake. Now his boss was going to think the worst of him too. God knew what was going through Welsh’s mind right now.

Well, there was nothing he could say or do that would make it any better. He was screwed whichever way he jumped. If he took the assignment he was dead. If he didn’t, he’d probably just fall apart and never work again. By the time Benny got back, he had no idea whether there would be anything left of him at all.

It was freezing out here. It stung his chest – but it helped. He was thinking clearly. More clearly anyway. He knew how bad this looked… he might as well let Welsh think the worst, might as well dig his own grave.

He chose his words as carefully as if he were stepping across a minefield.

“Remember you told me not to let the Feds bully me into doing something I don’t want to do?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m running out of choices.”

“Detective,” Welsh said, and paused. “If you’re in some kinda trouble that the Feds are using to blackmail you, then –”

“It’s not that,” Ray said, letting go of the rope and trying to shove his hands into pockets that weren’t there. _Who the hell designed these pants?_ He shook his head. _Focus,_ he told himself. God, he was tired. “I mean…” he thought about it. “Yeah, you could say they’re blackmailing me.” He stopped. He couldn’t think of any way to continue the conversation.

Welsh nodded, slowly. “Gotta be said, you don’t wanna get on the wrong side of the Feds.”

“No, Sir.” Ray carried on pushing the swing, looking down at his Chucks.

Welsh ambled to the swings, looked at the one next to Ray as though he was pondering Newtonian physics or something, then obviously decided it would bear his weight. He sat, and Ray quietly, and uncharitably, thought he was glad they’d built the thing with extra give in it for Big Tony’s fat ass. The minute he thought it, he remembered the day the swing set was finished, back when Angie was three. Tony had sat with his daughter on his knee, swinging them both. Seeing them in his head, how proud Tony was of his little Angie, he saw Chiara and her own father, a man with his face, and…

“You’ll forgive me for saying this, Detective,” Welsh said, “but you look like hell.”

Ray snapped out of it… Shit. He was on the swings, and it was night-time, and he was nobody’s father. Little Chiara was never his; she was dead.

“Sorry.”

“You mind telling me what happened today?”

Ray scratched the back of his head, feeling his bare scalp.

“It’s that situation with the FBI, the one we can’t talk about.”

“Ah. That situation.”

“Yeah. That one.”

“I see,” said Welsh, in a tone of voice that implied exactly the opposite. “You mind telling me how ‘that’ situation winds up with you pulling your piece outside a school and marching some FBI guy off to the horizon?”

“Okay, well… for starters, I didn’t pull my piece. I put my hand on it, because the guy startled me, right outside the school. And for two, how did the kids know it was FBI?”

  
“They didn’t.” Welsh stared at him stolidly. “I got a phone call from the Feds today, in between phone calls from the school and your family.”

“The Feds called?”

“Yes they did. It was an interesting conversation. Apparently you are a dangerous loose cannon. Apparently you took it upon yourself to beat the living snot out of one their best guys.”

  
Ray couldn’t help it. He started sniggering. “That was one of their best guys?”

“Apparently. What I don’t understand is why you’d even go for your gun if a member of the FBI turned up, let alone beat them up. They are, allegedly at least, on our side.”

“Yeah, well.” Ray managed to stifle his giggles. He tilted his head back and watched the clouds, scudding across the sky. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  
Welsh grunted, and shifted in the swing, twisting the ropes a little as he turned to face Ray. “Listen, I’ll talk to the Feds. If there’s anything I can do to help, you know I will.”

“Yes, Sir.” Ray looked at his boss and felt a twinge of guilt. The amount of times he’d given Welsh grief, treated him like the enemy… he should have known the guy stood by his men. He remembered his dream, where he’d mixed the Lieutenant up with Father Curry, and flushed with shame. Fortunately, Welsh couldn’t see it in the moonlight. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do to help though.”

“You made up your mind you’re taking this gig?”

Ray thought about it. And thought about it. And thought about it.

“Detective?”

“Honestly, Sir?”

“I’d prefer honesty, if that’s at all possible.”

“Honestly… I don’t know. I don’t like being strong-armed. You know if I go under with the Mob, chances are I’m never coming out. You know I’ve got a houseful of people to look after.”

“I know.” The Lieutenant’s voice was gentle, which made it worse.

“And…” Ray looked back up at the sky. “I like my life here.” He swallowed and looked back down. “I mean, I liked it.”

“What’s changed?”

“Everything.”

“Constable Fraser’s going to be back in a couple of weeks. Think he’ll be able to help?”

Ray thought of Benny. He was so… so pure. Not innocent, but uncorrupted. Thing was, Ray knew that Benny had fought hard for that fragile innocence. He’d nearly been destroyed by darkness once before and, in the aftermath, swallowed up by despair. Ray tried to imagine telling Benny even half of the truth… and just couldn’t bear the thought. Benny wouldn’t hold his father’s sins against him – of course not. But the ugliness of the whole thing would be one more crushing blow for him, one more proof that the world was… What was the word for what Pa had done?

_‘Osceno.’_

His father’s world was just obscene. The world was just obscene. If he told Benny, he’d only draw him into it, make him part of that world. And he couldn’t do that to his friend. Not Benny.

“No, Sir.” Ray heard his voice coming out of his throat, and it sounded like a broken thing. “No, he can’t help me.”

“I’m sorry, Ray,” the Lieutenant said, and Ray’s eyes startled toward him at the use of his Christian name. “Look, just go back in there, be with your family, and tomorrow I’m talking to the Feds. There’s gotta be some way outta this, and we’ll find it.”

“Thanks, Sir.”

“I know you were meant to start back at work tomorrow,” Welsh said, “but for now, you’re still on sick leave.”

“But I need…” _need to get out of the house, need to get out of my thoughts, need to…_

“I know, Detective. You need to be busy. Believe me, we’ll get this mess sorted out, and things will get back to normal. I’m gonna do everything in my power to get the Feds off your back. In the meantime,” he bent nearer to Ray, and stared at his eyes, concerned, “sleep off whatever the hell they did to you, and when you do come in tomorrow, it’s just to see me. No work, not even paperwork. You get me?”

Ray laughed. “I never thought I’d see the day where you ordered me not to do my paperwork.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it. It’s a one off.” Welsh smiled. “Alright then. Come about three pm. If I haven’t got some sense out of the bozos by then, I’ll make sure someone hears about it.”

“Thanks, Sir.”

“You’ll be fine, Vecchio. Now. Go be with your family.”

Ray stood, relieved to be feeling almost steady on his feet. Welsh heaved himself up from the swing.

“Who’d you get in to build this,” he asked. “I gotta granddaughter coming up three… don’t like the namby-pamby ones you get from the stores.”

“Ah, well. That was me and Tony, Sir.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. We put up the slide and climbing frame about the same time.”

Welsh nodded, thoughtfully. “Might Tony be interested in doing some work for me?”

Ray laughed. He knew what Welsh was doing. Yeah, he probably was thinking of getting a swing set for his granddaughter, but anyone could do that. Welsh wasn’t worried about swings. He was trying to make things normal again. It was obvious, at least to someone as guarded as Ray was these days, but it was well meant, and… yeah. He’d been unfair on the guy. He was more than a good boss; he was a good man.

“I’m sure Tony’d be interested. Come on in and ask him.”

Welsh rubbed his hands against the weather, and grinned. “Think your Ma’s got some leftovers?”

“Always,” said Ray.

He’d like to think it was peace, but it might have been just exhaustion. Welsh seemed to think he could fix things, Ray knew better. But even so, as he followed the Lieutenant back to the kitchen he found he wasn’t feeling too bad anymore.

In fact, thank God, he wasn’t feeling much of anything at all.  
~*~  
  
He slept through the alarm, he slept through breakfast, he slept through lunch. Ma brought him in a cup of tea at one point, then later cleared away the cold cup, and left him orange juice. Both times he mumbled thanks, and fell back to sleep, listening to her shuffling around the room, tidying things away. ‘Ma, I’m a grown man, I can clean my own room,’ he wanted to tell her… but it was too damn hard to speak.

  
He woke up briefly some time past one, and stumbled urgently to the bathroom to empty his bladder. He had some vague notion of freshening up, getting ready for the day and going to see Welsh, but when he got back to his bedroom he just needed to lie down. He could have another ten minutes, couldn’t he?

There was a child jumping on his bed.

“Uncle Ray, Uncle Ray, Uncle Ray!”

“What?” He rolled over and blinked, bleary-eyed, at Little Tony.

“You got a phone call. Your boss says you were late, and he’s in a meeting, and you gotta get your ass over there in half an hour.”

“Welsh said ‘ass?’” That didn’t seem very likely. Welsh said many things, most of them sarcastic, but he could generally do better than ‘ass.’

“No, I just made that up. I’m making stuff up now. For stories.”

“Stories?”

“Yeah. Cops and robbers. I’m gonna write for _Law and Order.”_

“I can’t believe Maria lets you watch that cr...Hang on – what did you say? I missed the meeting?”

“No, you were late for… I dunno what for, he’s the one in the meeting, and your ass is toast.” Tony giggled. “I made that up too. The toast bit.”

“Don’t let Ma hear you…” Ray scrubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “I missed the meeting?” Crap. How did that happen? “What time is it?”

Tony rolled his eyes. “I just got home from school, so it’s half past three.” He folded his arms, and looked at Ray like he was stupid. “And the clock’s right there.”

“Half past what now?” The clock agreed with Tony. It was thirty-two minutes after three.

Oh crap.

“Nonna’s cross with you. She says boys never stop being lazy, and if you’re not outta bed in ten minutes she’s gonna tip the mattress.”

Well, Tony probably wasn’t making that bit up.

“Yeah, Ma’s a wonderful woman with a heart of stone. Get outta here. I gotta get up.”

Tony had one last gleeful bounce, sprang off the bed with a thud, and ran out of the room.

“Jeez, Ma, I’m sorry,” Ray said when he finally made it downstairs. Damn, he couldn’t get the knot on his tie right...

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine…” He blinked. His eyes were dry. In fact… everything was dry. “Thirsty.”

She nodded, and he opened the fridge, grabbed a carton of OJ. He stood at the counter, and swigged it. Man, that felt good.

“Use a glass,” she snapped.

“Sorry, Ma.”

She nodded again, and started to leave the room. He frowned and caught her hand.

“Ma, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, Raimondo. You tell me.”

“There’s nothing –” he stopped. She turned her eyes to him, a steady blue-green gaze that nobody else in the world had.

“Raimondo, you never lied to me before. I know there’s something wrong.”

Ray sat, heavily, on the edge of the table. She stood with her back to the sink, arms folded, and waited.

“Ma,” he said, “I can’t lie to you. And I can’t tell you the truth.”

She watched him for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose it will have to do.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, shamefaced.

“Do you need me to drive you to work?”

“Do I need you to drive me to… no, Ma. I’m good.” He looked at her puzzled.

“You sure you don’t have a hangover?”

“Ma,” Ray said, shocked. “I wasn’t drunk!”

“Maybe not. But you weren’t sober,” she said, turning her back to him. Her hands grasped the porcelain of the sink. Her knuckles were white. “I’m not stupid. I can tell.”

“Ma, it’s not… it’s not what you think.”

“What am I thinking?” she asked, lifting something out of the water. Ray looked at it, puzzled, as it rose, dripping. It wasn’t anything… it was nothing, really… just a shirt.

Ma turned with his shirt in her hands, still wet. She’d been wringing it out for him. “Tell me, Raimondo. What am I thinking? What’s this?”

There was still a pink patch.

  
“God, Ma, you –”

She stepped toward him then, hard and fast, and snapped the flat of her hand to his face, still wet. She looked about ready to break into tears. “Do not,” she said, desperately, “do not take the Name in vain.”

That wasn’t a Frannie slap. His eyes watered, and he’d turned his head so hard from the blow that his neck ached. He blinked back tears and took a step backward. There was nothing he could say but he tried anyway.

  
“Ma, I didn’t mean…”

“You don’t,” she sobbed, “you don’t, you don’t do this kind of thing. What did you do, Raimondo, what did you do?”

“I…” He stared at his mother’s pale face. She looked too old, too frightened. He reached out to her, tried to touch her cheek. She flinched her head away. “Ma,” he said, miserably, “I didn’t do anything.”

“You came home,” she said, turning to the sink and continuing to wring out his shirt, “my son came home, you came home with blood on your clothes and… vomit. And you hid them in a bag. What am I supposed to think?”

“Ma…” Ray got up and touched her shoulder, gently. “I’m not him.”  
  
She turned again, trying to smile. “I know that,” she said and petted his face, right where the skin still stung. “But I’m a mother. I worry.” She looked away, over his shoulder, into the past. “It… it happens, sometimes, to men. Good men even. I don’t blame you, but… I don’t want it to happen to my boy.”

His heart sank. Even now she was trying to make excuses for Pa. _‘Good men even.’_ Had she ever known him at all? “What do you mean? What happens?” he asked, though he thought he knew.

“I love you, Raimondo, but I don’t want it to happen to you.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you doing… whatever you did. Drink, or drugs, or whatever it was. I don’t want you coming home like that again.”

Ray bit his lip and looked out the window. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t sound like one of Pa’s excuses.

“How bad was it?” he whispered. “Did the kids know?”  
  
“No, no. They wouldn’t know what to look for.” She stepped up to him, and laid her head against his chest for a moment. “I wasn’t even sure, until I found your suit.”

“I’m s…” He couldn’t say it.

“It’s your house, I know, but while I live in it, while the children live in it, I don’t want you coming home like that.” She fixed him in her sights. “Do you understand?”

  
“Yes. Yes, Ma,” he said meekly. “I understand.”

“Good.” She patted his cheek. “We’ll say no more of it.” She turned back to the sink, pulled the plug to let the water drain. Ran the tap, held his shirt under it to rinse out the last of the blood.

“Go to work.”

He’d been dismissed. Ray watched her for a moment, cleaning up his mess.

_How much of her life has she spent cleaning up Pa’s messes? When the hell did I turn into Pa?_

Now it was his turn to clean up after Pa. He swallowed, and left for his meeting with Welsh.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

The station was a sea of noise and chatter. The moment he walked in, people started coming up to him, clapping him on the back and talking crap. Seemed everyone wanted to know what kinda crazy stunt he pulled yesterday, and wasn’t that the Mountie’s job? **  
  
  
“** Yeah, well, you try working with him,” he deflected. “The crazy rubs off.” **  
  
  
** _What’s up with these people anyway?_ Depending who he listened to he either looked great or looked like shit. _Make your minds up._ **  
  
  
“** Jeez, I wasn’t even gone that long.”

 

 **“** You were in the hospital, Ray,” Huey said, rescuing him from Claire from accounting. “I didn’t realise how sick you were till your sister turned up yesterday.” **  
  
  
**Ray shrugged, dismissively. “I been in the hospital before.” **  
  
  
“** True.” Huey paused. “Where were you yesterday, anyway?” **  
  
  
“** Long story.” He smiled. It was almost funny by now… he could have this conversation in his sleep. People asking him to talk, and him having nothing to say. **  
  
  
“** Yeah, well… you shoulda told ‘em where you were going. And what was that thing with the gun outside the school?” **  
  
  
**_Yeah – I figured you’d ask about that. Everyone else has._ **  
  
  
“** You shoulda seen this place,” Huey continued when Ray didn’t answer. “It was a madhouse. First we get the school calling, then the hysterical parents…” Huey shook his head, disapprovingly. “And just when it can’t get any worse, Maria turns up saying you’re missing. You got any idea how much shit Welsh had to go through?” He dropped his voice. “I’m not sure, but I think the Feds called.” **  
  
  
“** Oh…” **  
  
  
**Huey gazed at him acutely, taking in the marks on his neck and face, but obviously decided not to ask about the Feds. He started off on another theme. **  
  
  
“** Anyway. I’m wounded.” He put his hand flat on his chest and took a step back, as though reeling from a blow. “I thought we were friends, Vecchio. I mean, come on… you had pneumonia a week ago.” Huey mock-glared at him, to cover up concern. “And nobody told us.” **  
  
  
“** Oh yeah?” Ray grinned, accepting the change of topic gratefully. “What makes you think I’d want a bunch of cops coming to see me?” **  
  
  
“** Who says we’d a come to see you?” Huey laughed. “But at least we coulda got you some crazy ass big balloons and a box of chocolates. Told the Mountie.” **  
  
  
“** Fraser? Benny phoned?” **  
  
  
“** Yeah, he wanted to get hold of you… sounds like he’s going to be incommunicado for a while… apparently he’s tracking a ‘malfeasant’ or something.” **  
  
  
“** Jeez…” With all his heart Ray wished he was with Benny, instead of in this mess. “I hope nothing happens to him.” **  
  
  
“** Nah, you know Big Red. He’ll be fine. Shame we didn’t know you were ill. Mind you, if we’d told him he’da been on the next plane to Chicago, and that malfeasant woulda got away.” **  
  
  
“** You reckon he’d ’a come?” Ray smiled at the thought. _Yeah. Benny woulda come._ **  
  
  
“** Fraser? Sure I do. You guys are tight.” Huey shook his head. “Dumb as bricks, but tight. Next time, Vecchio, tell your family to let us know if you’re ill.” **  
  
  
“** I called in sick.” **  
  
  
**Huey rolled his eyes. “We just thought you faking.” **  
  
  
** _Yeah, I guess I deserve that._ Ray snickered slightly. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d malingered. **  
  
  
“** Hey, come on, Jack,” Ray felt almost relaxed by the office place banter. “You know me. Would I do a thing like that?” _Besides, it’s bad karma,_ he thought. _Last time I tried to pull a fast one, I nearly drowned._ **  
  
  
“** I plead the fifth.” Huey grinned. “Oh, and Welsh wants to see you.” **  
  
  
“** That’s why I’m here.” **  
  
  
“** Aww, and I thought you came to see me.” **  
  
  
“** Sorry to disappoint.” Ray straightened as much as he could, and swaggered across the bullpen to Welsh’s office. _Weird… The blinds are down_. **  
  
  
**Just as he was wondering what that meant, the door swung open, and Welsh blocked the entrance. **  
  
  
“** Detective,” he said in a low rumble. “Just a heads up. When you step into my office, I don’t want you to scream, shout, or break anything, or anybody. Especially anybody.” **  
  
  
“** Excuse me?”

 **  
  
“** You heard me, Detective.” Welsh stepped back, warily, and let him in the room. **  
  
  
“** You have got to be kidding me,” Ray said, cold fury rising in him as he saw the man behind the desk. Welsh reached behind him and locked the door. Ray pivoted on his heel and shouted at him. “What’s that bastard doing here?” **  
  
  
“** Remember what I said, Detective. Try not to kill him. The paperwork work isn’t worth it.” **  
  
  
**Agent Sharma was sitting in the Lieutenant’s chair, as though he owned the place. Ray turned back to him, and felt his lips peel back to reveal his teeth. Before he could stop himself, he took a step forward and actually snarled. **  
  
  
**Welsh put a big hand on his shoulder, and pulled him back. **  
  
  
“** Detective,” he murmured, “this would not look good on your résumé.” **  
  
  
**Ray froze, still glaring at the man. Sharma was good, he had to give him that. There had been a tiny little flinch when Ray stepped up to him, but you’d have to be a trained observer to notice it. **  
  
  
**A little flinch was all Ray needed. He smiled with every ounce of malice in him. Flung himself into a chair, and put his feet on the desk, hoping that Welsh would understand the politics of gesture. From the fact that the Lieutenant said nothing, he assumed that he did. **  
  
  
“** You don’t look too good, Agent Sharma.” **  
  
  
“** You don’t look too good yourself, Detective Vecchio.” **  
  
  
“** Yeah, well.” Ray crossed his legs at the ankles. The guy was lisping. “I still got all my teeth.” **  
  
  
**Sharma shifted in the chair, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk. He blatantly ignored the soles of Ray’s shoes. **  
  
  
** _Well, who’da thought it. At least the bastard’s got nerve_. Ray knew it wasn’t just about taking over the Lieutenant’s office, it was about personal boundaries and safety as well. Okay, so he’d put a desk between them, but he was still getting in Ray’s face. Or his feet. **  
  
  
“** You’ve made this very difficult for yourself, Detective Vecchio. We wanted to do this the easy way, but you left us no option.” **  
  
  
“** There’s always an option.” **  
  
  
“** Not for you.” **  
  
  
**Ray kept his eyes on the man, sizing him up. He’d really done a number on him, the day before. He only remembered it in flashes, but looking at the guy’s face he could understand why his muscles ached today. Sharma’s nose was taped up, his face was even more bruised than Ray’s, his lip was split, and he had two black eyes. **  
  
  
“** Still pissed that I beat the crap out of you?” **  
  
  
“** This has nothing to do with that,” the man said. **  
  
  
“** Yeah, right.” Ray snorted. “So, why are you here?” **  
  
  
“** Do you have a final answer?” **  
  
  
**Maybe if they’d sent Cash it would have been different, maybe not. He’d never know. The idiots had sent this guy – and this guy seemed far too invested in the death of Armando and Chiara Langoustini. Ray didn’t know what that meant yet, but he was sure as hell not going to do anything this guy wanted him to do. **  
  
  
**It took him less than a second to decide. **  
  
  
“** Yeah, I got an answer. Same as I’ve been telling you all along. No.” **  
  
  
“** No?” **  
  
  
“** No. Now, I’ve said it in front of a witness, so back the hell off.” **  
  
  
**Sharma shifted in his seat, fixing Ray in his sights. _God, he looks pissed._ **  
  
  
“** Are you sure about that?” **  
  
  
“** What the hell is wrong with you? I said ‘no.’” **  
  
  
“** That’s true,” Welsh interjected. “You heard the man.” **  
  
  
**Sharma threw up one hand in a dismissive gesture, as though the Lieutenant was a well trained dog. Welsh fell silent, and Ray scowled on his boss’s behalf. He took his feet off the desk and stood up. “Look,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, “I realise you federal types ain’t all that bright, and it ain’t your fault if you’re challenged. So I’ll say it again, nice and slow. N. O. You can spell two letter words, can’t you?” **  
  
  
“** I can make your life very difficult,” Sharma said, threateningly. “In case it had escaped your attention, you assaulted a federal officer in front of witnesses -” **  
  
  
“** Yeah? Who you gonna tell? You gonna tell my superiors what you guys were doing?” **  
  
  
“** Detective Vecchio -” the guy’s voice got even colder. “ _Mr_ Vecchio, I should say. Rest assured that, by the time I’m through with you, you won’t be able to get a job in this city as a rent-a-cop in a shopping mall.” **  
  
  
“** Like I care,” Ray snapped back. He did care - if he couldn’t work, he didn’t know how they’d pay the bills, but he’d cross that bridge when he came to it. _God, what the hell am I gonna do?_ **  
  
  
** Sharma obviously knew what he was thinking. “It will be quite a change of circumstances for your family,” he pointed out. **  
  
  
“** Yeah? Well, as you guys are so keen to point out, at least we own the damn house. We been poor before, and you can only lock me out of so many jobs. I’ll find something.” **  
  
  
“** Manual labour?” Sharma laughed dismissively. “I don’t think so.” **  
  
  
“** I’ve done it before,” Ray said. _God, I can’t go back to that._ His heart sank at the memory of endless, back breaking night shifts... _Stop whining, crybaby, you’re fucking pathetic. Loadsa guys gotta work shitty jobs. Just suck it up, and be a man_. “I can do it again,” he declared. He’d have to. Oh God - he couldn’t even convince himself. “And Tony works too -” **  
  
  
“** You’ve already stated that Tony’s work is sporadic. Besides, even if an employer did take on an ex-cop, how do you think your co-workers would feel about you?” **  
  
  
**Shit - the room was too small. Ray realised he was pacing, and forced himself to stop. _You can’t look weak in front of this guy..._ He knew exactly what Sharma was threatening. He’d seen it before - ex cops labouring on building sites, or the waterfront tended to have a hell of a lot of ‘work-related accidents’ that nobody ever witnessed. **  
  
  
**Sharma carried on talking, calmly. “Come to that, Mr Vecchio - how do you think Little Tony would feel about you? If you lose your job under mysterious circumstances, he’ll never look up to you again.” **  
  
  
**Ray cleared his throat. _Think. I need to think -_ **  
  
  
“** Listen,” he said, and was relieved by how firm he sounded. “So, my whole family think I’m scum. The whole world thinks I was a crooked cop. I don’t care. So I gotta take a few lumps at work -” **  
  
  
“** If you can get work. As you just so eloquently put it, the whole world will think you were a crooked cop.” **  
  
  
“** I’ll get work.” Ray’s muscles were clenched so hard his neck was aching. _I’ll find something - there’s always something. I’ll work as a fucking garbage man if I have to._ He glared, resolutely, at Sharma. “What I’m saying is, I don’t give a fuck. There’s no way I’m putting Ma through it.” **  
  
  
“** You’ll be putting your mother ‘through it’ no matter what you do. There will be talk in the neighbourhood, I imagine. A lot of speculation as to why you lost your job. She’ll never know what happened, you’ll never be able to tell her. She’ll think the worst.” **  
  
  
** _She already thinks the worst._ Ray bit down on the tip of his tongue to keep the thought to himself. **  
  
  
“** You’ll lose your insurance, your pension -” **  
  
  
“** I don’t care.” His voice cracked - he shouldn’t be saying this in front of Welsh, but it burst out of him anyway. “I don’t care what you do. At least she won’t lose another son.” **  
  
  
**Sharma sighed in an affectation of regret, and sat back. “Well, you leave me no alternative.” **  
  
  
“** There’s nothing you can say to change my mind.” **  
  
  
**Sharma looked at his watch. “Your mother should be home right now.” He reached for the phone. “I think it’s time I told her what’s going on...” **  
  
  
**All the air went out of the room. **  
  
  
“** Detective – Detective!” **  
  
  
**Ray was standing, straining against something and… Welsh. Welsh was holding him back. Welsh was a big brick wall of a man, pinning his arms and wrestling him back into his seat. **  
  
  
“** Detective, sit down,” he ordered, as Ray landed with a thump. **  
  
  
**Ray’s heart was hammering in his chest. “You heard what he said. He’s gonna tell Ma.” **  
  
  
“** Yes, Detective Vecchio.” Welsh was crouched next to him, arm relaxing across his chest now that it seemed Ray wasn’t going to kill anyone just yet. “Yes, I heard him say that. And I’m sorry, but I know what that means.” **  
  
  
“** You know –” **  
  
  
“** Yeah. I’m sorry, Detective. They told me about your brother, about what your father did.” **  
  
  
**Ray clenched his fists, relishing the pain in his knuckles. “That wasn’t theirs to tell.” _God. How much does Welsh know? What else did the bastards tell him?_ **“** They tell you they killed him? They tell you they killed his little girl?” **  
  
  
**Welsh shot a look of pure loathing across the desk at Sharma. “No. They didn’t tell me that, but I can imagine.” **  
  
  
**Sharma cleared his throat. “The detective’s imagination is running away with him. The timing of Langoustini’s death was an unfortunate coincidence.” **  
  
  
“** A coincidence my ass,” Welsh growled, and stood. The irrelevant thought popped into Ray’s head that little Tony was actually right. Welsh could be driven to say ‘ass’ if you pushed him hard enough. “You come in here, bullying my men, you drag ‘em through hell, you threaten their families –” **  
  
  
“** You can stop with the theatrics, Lieutenant Welsh. We’re not on Court TV.” Sharma was looking smug. “So. Detective. Would you like to reconsider your answer?” **  
  
  
**Ray found himself unable to speak. **  
  
  
“** It would be a shame if you didn’t. At some stage, we may have to call your mother in to identify a body…” **  
  
  
“** Oh God,” Ray folded over at the waist, and wrapped his hands around the back of his head. **  
  
  
“** As you know we have your brother’s body in the morgue. It would be a shame if there were a case of mistaken identity.” **  
  
  
“** It’s alright, Detective.” Welsh’s hand was huge and warm on his back, through the layers of his clothes. Jacket, shirt, vest, and he still felt naked. “We can warn your mother…” **  
  
  
“** How?” Ray’s voice was muffled up against his knees. “You’ll have to explain why there are two guys in the world who look just like me. Don’t you think she’ll figure it out, however we try to explain?” **  
  
  
**Welsh didn’t say anything, and Ray knew that they were beat. He shut his eyes, and the room smelled of old hymnals, beeswax, and Father Curry. He couldn’t say ‘no.’ **  
  
  
“** So,” Sharma’s voice, again. “Have you reconsidered your decision?” **  
  
  
“** Yeah,” Ray groaned. “Yeah, I’ll do it.” **  
**~*~ **  
  
  
**Ray didn’t go back to the house immediately. Ma would be there. Maria and Frannie. The kids. Tony’s family were coming for dinner tonight… the place would be heaving. He thought of Ma, wondering why he was late. She’d think it was because of her ultimatum. **‘** _I don’t want you coming home like that again.’_ She was going to think he was out somewhere, getting high or getting hammered. When had all the women in his life started to distrust him so much? **  
  
  
**He couldn’t think of any place to go. **  
  
  
**He walked. He kicked the pavement behind him and ate up space. And walked. **  
  
  
**And walked. **  
  
  
**No matter how far he walked, he kept coming back to the same kinds of places. Rough – not too rough. Familiar sorts of streets. A nowhere neighbourhood, halfway between everywhere else. And like everywhere else, it had Pa’s kind of place. He stood for about five minutes outside the bar, hating himself, and went in. **  
  
  
**He slid up onto a stool, and rested his arms on the counter. This place was a dive. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to bars. He’d done undercover. He’d sat in places like this in loud horrible clothes, drinking ginger ale, or nursing an endless beer while everyone else got drunk. He’d been in cop bars, and he’d had too much to drink after one too many funerals. But he didn’t like these places. Never had... **  
  
  
“** What are you having, Sir,” the woman said, smiling. **  
  
  
“** Bourbon,” he said. Pop’s favourite, a smell and taste he loathed. “Better make that a double.” **  
**~*~ **  
  
  
** _Ray could do undercover… he was the king of undercover. Here he was, in lock-up, surrounded by hardened criminals, and nobody had made him yet._ **  
  
  
“** _Can you read that,” he said to the perp. For some reason the perp’s face was longer than it should be… oh yeah. Made sense, really… the perp was dressed in a suit like a regular human being, but for some reason he had the head of a goat. Ray didn’t question it. It took all sorts, after all. “Does the label not say Armani?” he asked the goat-man. “Of course it's original merchandise. A friend of mine just sorta found a truckload sitting on the side of the road.”_ **  
  
  
** _The goat-man shuffled in his handsome suit, his hooves clicking against the concrete. “Isn't this kind of a strange place to do business,” he asked._ **  
  
  
** _Ray gestured expansively. “Hey, at least in here you know who you're dealing with, right?” The goat-guy’s regular human fingers were stroking the hairs of his chinny chin chin, about to take the bait when…_ **  
  
  
“** _Excuse me.” Benny was standing there in his brown uniform, looking impossibly noble. “I'm looking for a Detective Armando?”_ **  
  
  
**Ray poured himself a glass of milk, and sat at the kitchen table, still laughing about his dream. **  
  
  
** _Jeez,_ he thought, _trust Benny to break my cover like that, just when I’m doing a deal with the devil._ The guy in the cell that time had been trying to entrap him after all. No wonder Ray dreamt him with cloven feet. **  
  
  
** _Armando,_ he thought when he’d stopped chuckling. His smile faded. In the dream, Benny had called him ‘Detective Armando.’ He lifted his glass, and sat at the kitchen table, sipping slowly. Frannie would tell him that his dream meant something. Maybe the dream was telling him that he and Armando were in this together. Well, he already knew that. Or perhaps it meant that he had to be careful not to forget who he was. He knew that too. Any cop who’d ever done undercover knew _that_ one - first rule of survival. If you forgot who you were you were dead. **  
  
  
**It could just be that he was praying for a day when Benny would blunder back in, trying to find him again. And Ray would be glad to see him again under any circumstances, even if Benny did blow his cover, even if it did mean someone put a bullet in his head. So long as they didn’t put a bullet in Benny’s head as well… **  
  
  
** _God  – I might never see Benny again._ **  
  
  
**Ray shut his eyes. _Don’t think about the future. What’s the point?_ He carried on sipping his milk and concentrated on the small sounds of the kitchen. The fridge made creaking noises, the clock ticked. Outside the window, there was a rasp and rattle as the ivy brushed up against the glass. _I should trim it back… if the Feds give me time._ **  
  
  
**Time. He wondered how much time he had left. He’d had his choices taken from him until there was nothing left. And yet – he felt strangely liberated, even as his freedom was stripped away. Since he’d come back from the bar he had been feeling… **  
  
  
**Light, and irresponsible, and glad. It wasn’t the bourbon. He’d just had that one drink – no matter how bad he felt, he didn’t hate himself that much. If nothing he did mattered anymore, then now was the only thing that mattered, the most precious thing left. **  
  
  
**No wonder he had taken forever to fall asleep, and that when he did sleep he had strange dreams. **  
  
  
**More than likely, the dream meant nothing other than, ‘don’t eat taralli and cheese before bedtime.’ He did Ma proud last night. She was still cooking for the five thousand – his fault for scaring her so much – and after two days in which he’d not eaten a thing that wanted to stay down, he had an epiphany. He realised, suddenly, that he was absolutely ravenous. So hungry, in fact, that Ma’s cooking was a religious experience. **  
  
  
**He also realised that he really liked the noise at the Vecchio dinner table; the children having sword fights with breadsticks; the flatulence competitions from little Tony’s friends; Frannie and Maria carping at each other. Baby Vito screamed inconsolably as his even littler cousin Ella spilled juice down both their fronts, and Ray smiled, heartsick, heart-happy. **  
  
  
**He even, impossibly, loved Big Tony’s parents, bookending the table, refusing to admit they spoke a word of English. Little Tony was continuing his campaign to trip them up, but no matter how much he tried to annoy them with comments about the Pope wearing a big hat, they kept faithfully to Italian. **  
  
  
“** Uncle Ray,” Tony had asked in a quick gabble, “‘can I have my fork’n’knife?’” That one nearly earned him a clip around the ear before Nonna Greco realised she was being played, and remembered that she didn’t speak English. **  
  
  
**Ray smiled again, feeling it twist a little. He was going to miss them all. **  
  
  
**He was finishing his milk when Frannie came sleepily into the kitchen. **  
  
  
“** Whoddup,” she mumbled, pouring out her own milk. She yawned and tried again. “What’s up?” **  
  
  
“** Nothing, I’m good.” **  
  
  
“** You woke me up,” she sniped. “Again.” **  
  
  
“** Sorry.” **  
  
  
“** So,” she plonked herself opposite him. “What were you dreaming about this time? Wish I had dreams that woke me up laughing.” **  
  
  
“** Oh… it was just…” Ray started chuckling again. “Well, I was trying to find something, so I could arrest a talking goat, and Benny came in and blew my cover.” **  
  
  
“** Oh.” She smiled. “So I’m not the only one who dreams about Fraser.” **  
  
  
“** Eugh! Frannie!” He flapped a hand at her, crossly. “I don’t want to hear your dreams about Fraser.” **  
  
  
“** No.” She smirked. “No you don’t.” **  
  
  
**Ray glared at her, and shook his head. “Do not go there,” he said. “Do not put that thought in my head. I don’t wanna think about you making googoo eyes at him, let alone… urgh. I was just getting comfortable again, gonna try to get back to sleep… now you’ve probably gone and given me nightmares. I might never sleep again.” **  
  
  
**She shrugged. “You’re gonna have to get used to it, Bro, I’m gonna be working with you soon enough.” **  
  
  
**Ray stood, silently, went to wash his glass. **  
  
  
“** What,” she teased. “You not looking forward to us working together?” **  
  
  
“** Yeah,” he said, tightly. “Yeah, I am.” **  
  
  
“** You don’t want to work with me,” she said. **  
  
  
**Ray froze at the sink. **  
  
  
“** You said you wouldn’t say anything about it again, but...” Her voice was trapped between angry and hurt. “You didn’t want me to apply in the first place. You don’t want me to - ” **  
  
  
“** It’s not that, Frannie,” Ray said. “I’d love to work with you.” He’d been distracted, he realised. For one happy day… less than that even… he’d been distracted. By his family, by good food, by noise and children playing. He’d forgotten that none of this was his anymore. Not the ivy tapping on the glass, not his sister drinking milk at the kitchen table. **  
  
  
**In real life, if he’d had a real life anymore, he’d be complaining about working with Frannie, because she’d chase after Benny and embarrass the hell out of him and his friend. In fact he had been complaining - loudly. He’d complained to anyone who’d listen - complained to Elaine, (‘why’d you have to tell her your job was coming up?’) complained to Welsh, (‘Sir, if I have to work with her I’ll go crazy - you don’t got to live with her, you don’t know what it’s like.’) But apparently Frannie had people skills, some of the time anyway, and she had good references. She might be a ditz, but she wasn’t stupid. It was probably his fault she’d applied in the first place. If he hadn’t laughed his ass off when she first mentioned the idea she wouldn’t have got a bee in her bonnet and put the application in. Nobody had expected her to actually get the job... **  
  
  
**And he’d given up ragging her about it when he realised it was just making her more determined. So, Frannie’d start work in a month or two, once Elaine had graduated from the Academy. And he’d be embarrassed for a few weeks, until she realised she wasn’t cut out for it and decided to do something else. But now – he’d take that. He’d take embarrassment, if it meant he could spend another day with her. “I’d love to work with you,” he repeated in a whisper. **  
  
  
“** What do you mean, you ‘would’ love to work with me?” **  
  
  
**Ray upended the glass to drain and washed his hands, hoping she’d not push it, knowing that she would. **  
  
  
“** Are you in trouble at work?” **  
  
  
“** No.” **  
  
  
“** You are. You’re being investigated. You’re getting fired. You’re…” **  
  
  
“** Jeez, thanks for the trust, Frannie. No. I’m not being investigated. I’m not being fired.” Before he could stop himself he muttered, “though some days, I really wish I was.” **  
  
  
“** What then? Oh God… you’re sick. You’ve got cancer.” **  
  
  
“** I do not have cancer! What the hell’s wrong with you Frannie?” He gave her hair a frustrated tousle. It was either that or pull it – and he’d grown up at least a little bit in the last twenty years. “I’ll tell you in a few days.” **  
  
  
“** Tell me now.” **  
  
  
**Ray glared at her. “Who do you think you are? My Lieutenant? I’ll tell you in a few days.” **  
  
  
“** Ray…” **  
  
  
“** Goodnight, Frannie.” **  
  
  
“** Look, I’m sorry I came over bossy, but…” **  
  
  
“** I said ‘goodnight.’” **  
  
  
**He knew he’d hurt her feelings, he knew it would just make her wonder even more what was going on, but he turned his back anyway. She scraped back her chair and stomped out of the kitchen. **  
  
  
** _Poor Frannie,_ he thought, listening to her climb the stairs. _I am such a bastard._ Yeah, but what could he tell her? **  
  
  
** _I wish the damn Feds would get on with it already. All this waiting around is gonna kill me…_ He shook his head at the impossible realisation that he actually wanted the FBI to knock first thing in the morning and drag him off to Vegas. At least then he’d know where he stood.   **  
  
  
**On the floor above he heard Frannie’s door shutting, the floorboards squeaking as she crossed the room. He imagined her, feeling sad because he’d treated her like a kid, again, big-brothered her, again, insulted her, again. **  
  
  
**He tried not to feel guilty, but it didn’t seem to be working _. Please God,_ he thought, _don’t let that angry ‘goodnight’ be my last word to Frannie._ **  
  
  
**He might just as well have told her to fuck off. **  
  
  
**He sat back at the kitchen table, looked out the night window. Watched the ivy tapping the glass, and didn’t sleep. **  
  
**~*~ **  
  
  
**At quarter to five Big Tony was pacing the downstairs hall, with Vito over his shoulder. Vito had discovered that having your side teeth coming through was even worse than the first lot, and was making sure that anyone else in earshot knew it too. Ray opened the kitchen door, and stared sympathetically at his brother-in-law, who looked shattered. **  
  
  
“** You want me to take him?” **  
  
  
**Tony looked up at him, gratefully. “Yeah… what do I owe you?” **  
  
  
“** I’ll think of something. Gimme a minute to get changed.” By the time he came down the stairs Vito was bright red and blubbering. Tony didn’t look much better. He’d been working the night shift, and it showed. Ray took Vito. “Come ‘ere, big guy. What you wailing at?” **  
  
  
“** Me,” his father muttered, and scrubbed his face. “Remind me work sucks. Next time I’m this tired, it’s Maria’s turn.” He stomped his way up the stairs, making almost as much racket as Vito. **  
  
  
** _Just as well folks in this house are used to a lot of noise,_ Ray thought, as Vito wept in his ear. “Non piangere, Vito,” Ray suggested, hoping Italian might work where Big Tony’s desperate begging in English hadn’t. Nope. No such luck. The poor kid had got to the hiccupping, snotty stage of crying. He stared at his uncle as though he had just discovered the whole world was a lie, hitched in a deep breath, and howled. **  
  
  
“** Yeah? I hear you, Vito. I know just what you mean.” **  
  
  
**Vito fixed tragedy huge eyes on him, and sobbed. **  
  
  
“** You know what? Let’s get your baby seat, and take you out for a drive. Whaddaya say?” **  
  
  
**Vito, not surprisingly, didn’t say much. He was too busy crying. Ray took it as a yes. **  
  
  
“** Now this,” he informed Vito, as he strapped the baby seat into position, “is my prize possession. I mean…” he glanced at his nephew, apologetically. “Obviously the car, not this heap of junk plastic you got to sit in.” **  
  
  
** _Seriously, yellow? Why’d anyone make a yellow car seat? Looks like mustard._ He quirked a grin at Vito, and poked out his tongue. **  
  
  
“** Yeah, I know,” he sympathised, “it’s ugly, but what can you do? And I love you, so you’re up front with me, riding shotgun.” He paused and admitted it. “Well, that and the seatbelt works up front. So don’t go puking all over the upholstery. I already got one friend who drools and leaves hair all over the place, and that ain’t you.” **  
  
  
**Vito went silent, and stared at him. “What? You’ve met Dief. What am I meant to say? ‘Hey, sorry Dief, you’re not allowed in?’ He’s a big bad wolf, he’ll track me down and eat me.” Vito was sucking his fist now, solemn-eyed. “Okay, so yeah, you’re right, he’s not a big bad wolf. He’s actually more of a cute doggy, and he wouldn’t eat me unless I was a donut. Don’t tell him I said so though… it would only hurt his feelings.” **  
  
  
**Ray wound the passenger window down a crack, so that when they drove Vito would get some wind in his hair. “Don’t tell your Uncle Benny that I called Dief a cute doggy either. He’d never forgive me.” **  
  
  
**Vito was smiling a little bit now, even though the sides of his cheeks were very pink from the toothache. Ray settled behind the wheel, buckled up, and grinned at his nephew. “You ready?” **  
  
  
“** Si,” Vito shouted. Before Ray could decide whether Vito had really said a word or not, he carried on with “wee wee wee!” Either Vito was very excited, and it was a coincidence, or he was secretly learning French as well as English and Italian. **  
  
  
**Ray chuckled, and started the car. The early morning baby run - he’d done this for Little Tony, for Angelica, for pretty much all the cousins at one time or other. Scored big points with the parents - what he didn’t tell anyone was just how much he liked it. **  
  
  
“** You’re a captive audience, Vito,” he said. “Let’s go look at Chicago.” **  
  
  
**As they drove through his city Ray kept up a steady stream of chatter, glancing sideways every now and then to see if his nephew was asleep yet. Told him all about how important it was to keep to the posted limits, at least when you had a baby in the front, but that it was good for Benny’s blood pressure to floor it once in awhile - if only to remind him that you did things differently in America. “Everyone needs a good fright now and then, Vito. It’s good for the system - and the only thing that scares your Uncle Benny is my driving, so I’m providing a public health service. Keep the Mountie healthy, Chicago’s a safer place. You know what I mean, kid?” **  
  
  
**Vito nodded sleepily like Ray wasn’t talking absolute crap. **  
  
  
**The roads were almost empty this early in the morning, and it was still dark. Eventually the hypnotic drift of the sparse traffic and occasional headlights had its effect, and Vito’s heavy eyes closed. His head drooped, and his snuffling breath turned into gentle baby snores. **  
  
  
**Ray drove on for a little bit longer, then reluctantly turned the Riv back toward the house. **  
  
  
**When he pulled up, Vito’s hair was blown around his head in a flyaway silken halo. Ray leant over him, gently, and smoothed it down. It had reddish highlights, from Tony’s side of the family he supposed. Vito was smiling in his sleep, and the red patches at the joints of his jaw had eased down a little. Poor kid. Getting two back teeth coming through at the same time was just rotten luck. “Life ain’t fair, kid,” Ray told him sadly, and kissed his nose. “I’m sorry.” Vito sneezed in his sleep. Ray unstrapped the car seat and carried the baby from the car to the front door of the house. **  
  
  
“** Detective Vecchio, I see you’re back…” Agent Cash came to a halt. “Oops,” he said, looking rueful. “I’m sorry. I keep interrupting you when you’re trying to look after children.” **  
  
  
**Ray cracked a spontaneous grin, giddy with relief and shock that something was finally happening. That finally it was coming to an end… or a beginning. “Well, I’ll not start a mob war this time. Better come in.” **  
  
  
**Ma was in the kitchen, already starting breakfast. **  
  
  
“** Hey Ma,” Ray said, and pecked her cheek, depositing the car seat on the table. He nodded at Vito. “He just got off to sleep. Should be down for about an hour.” **  
  
  
“** Grazie,” she said, and started unbundling her grandson. “I thought you would scream yourself sick, mio povero bambolotto,” she told the sleeping Vito, lifting him so he rested, slack-limbed, on her shoulder. She tilted her head at Agent Cash. Anybody else would have asked to be introduced. Ma said, “would you like some breakfast?” **  
  
  
**Agent Cash smiled apologetically. “I’m sure I would,” he said, “but I’m afraid that Tony will probably never get over the trauma.” **  
  
  
**Ma’s eyebrows shot up in her head. **  
  
  
“** Tony junior, I mean. There was a misunderstanding outside the school gates.” Cash gave Ma a fetching smile. “I’m sorry, I should introduce myself.” He offered a hand, then realising Ma’s hands were full, settled into parade rest, hands behind his back. Wow, it was freaky at times how much the guy acted like a blond Benny. _Maybe he’s not a Fed, maybe he’s a Mountie in disguise…_ **  
  
  
“** I’m here in a professional capacity,” the man continued. “I’m Agent Cash, with the FBI.” He shot a sideways glance at Ray. “Your son here has been helping us. I hope you realise you can be very proud of him.” **  
  
  
“** FBI?” **  
  
  
“** Yes Ma’am.” **  
  
  
“** Ray?” She glared at him. “Why didn’t you say anything?” **  
  
  
“** Mrs Vecchio,” Cash said, smoothly. “Your son is helping us with a very sensitive situation, and he hasn’t been in a position to discuss matters of high security, even with family members.” **  
  
  
**Ma glanced between Ray and Cash, and pursed her lips. “Well,” she said. “That explains a lot.” She looked back at Cash. “So,” she said, and it was the rudest thing Ray had ever heard her say to a guest. “What are you doing in our house?” **  
  
  
“** Ma,” Ray said, hurriedly, “Agent Cash is here because we need to discuss something important.” **  
  
  
“** That’s right, Mrs Vecchio. Ray should be back by dinner time.” **  
  
  
**Ma looked at Cash, and her eyes went hard. “Try not to hurt him this time.” **  
  
  
“** Ma,” Ray blushed. “That wasn’t Agent Cash…” **  
  
  
“** Whoever it was,” she snapped, and Vito grumbled on her shoulder. “You hurt him, I’ll kill you.” **  
  
  
**She turned then and stalked out of the kitchen. Ray gaped after her, jaw hanging open. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know what got into her…” **  
  
  
**Cash was smiling at the door she had shut in his face. “I really like your Ma,” he said, wistfully. **  
  
  
“** Yeah?” Ray felt a warm rush of pride. _Trust Ma to tell the feebies what she thinks of ‘em._ **“** You and me both.” **  
  
  
**He found himself smiling back at Cash, grateful to the man. He’d obviously been trying to fix things for Ray, to make things right with Ma, even if it had backfired on him. Okay, so that probably meant he’d seen a transcript of family conversations, everybody freaking out and thinking Ray was mobbed up, or on drugs, or whatever the hell else they were worried about. Ray knew he should be pissed with the guy that he was listening in on them. But then, he knew the Feds were listening anyway. At least this particular Fed had his back. **  
  
  
“** I get the feeling I might not prove too popular here,” Cash said wryly. **  
  
  
** _Gotta be said, the man has a point._ **  
  
  
**Ray took Cash’s elbow. “Better get you outta here before the rest of the family come down and lynch you.” He grinned, to make a joke of it, but the last thing Ray needed was for word to get back to his sisters that the Feds were menacing him in the kitchen. He imagined the screaming match, and cringed. He started to draw Cash to the front door, away from the line of fire.“We’d better go while the going’s good.” **  
  
  
“** That sounds like a very sensible idea.” **  
  
  
“** So,” Ray asked as they made their way across the road to Cash’s car. “What’s the plan for today?” **  
  
  
**Cash slid into the driver’s seat and waited for Ray to get in before he replied. He looked almost ashamed. “We need to get you ready,” he said. “Im... sorry.” **  
  
  
“** Sorry?” A Fed apologising to him. That didn’t sound good. “Why, what are you gonna do to me now?” _Dip me in boiling oil? Chinese water torture? Smear me with jelly and leave me in the desert for ants to eat?_ **  
  
  
“** We have to move fast,” Cash continued, breaking in on Ray’s slightly hysterical thoughts. “We don’t have a lot of time.” He looked directly into Ray’s eyes. His grey gaze was bleak. “You’ll have a few more days with your family - maybe a week. But...” He trailed off. “This whole situation was handled badly,” he admitted. “I’m sorry. I really am.” **  
  
  
“** Yeah?” Ray snorted, dismissively. “Well, I’m sick of ‘sorry.’” **  
  
  
**Cash didn’t insult him by apologising again. Ray nodded. _At least one of these bastards has some integrity._ **“** Okay.” Ray steeled himself. “So, I got a lot to learn.” He looked out the window. “Better get started then.” **  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian Baby Talk:
> 
> "non piangere" - "don't cry."
> 
> "mio povero bambolotto" - "my poor little doll."


	9. Chapter 9

Breakfast wasn’t as good as Ma would have made it, but it cost somebody a lot of money. Ray had lost his appetite - he could only manage the pastries - but he made himself eat anyway, grimly shredding brioche and chasing it down with black coffee, looking out the long window across the Chicago skyline. Not a window even… a long curving wall of glass taking up one whole side of the room. Lake Michigan was blue in the early morning light, and horribly far beneath them. The sun had come up over the horizon, but the city was not yet awake. Even when it did start to come alive for the day, the noise would never reach them, high up in the Altitude Suite.  
  
  
The glamorous surroundings were definitely overkill. Ray didn’t need quite this much grandeur to be impressed. How much did it cost to hire a suite in this hotel? They couldn’t be doing it for his sake - why didn’t they just take him to the Feebies’ building downtown? Unless - oh. That was it. They were so paranoid about this op they didn’t want even their own guys seeing him if they didn’t have to. Somebody might think he was Armando, after all. And a Vegas mobster turning up at the Fed’s headquarters in Chicago would be big news.  
  
  
He and Cash rode up in a private escalator that was so silent and smooth it didn’t feel like they were moving at all. They were accompanied by a young Fed who looked like he’d just rolled off the conveyor belt. He hadn’t had a chance to loosen up yet - still walked like a robot. _Wonder was Cash ever that bad?_ He looked at the man. Still a lot of starch in his spine, but Ray couldn’t imagine him ever being that uptight. Seemed like the poor kid couldn’t make his mind up if Ray was James Bond or a terrorist.  
  
  
Cash tried to make small talk as they waited for the first ‘meeting’ to start, but Ray just stared out at Chicago and grunted. None of this felt particularly real. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but whatever it was, it wasn’t this big empty room, that wall of glass. So far, apart from Cash and the nervous kid he hadn’t seen anyone.  
  
  
 _Maybe,_ he thought facetiously, _we’re in the Twilight Zone, and there’s nobody else left._  
  
  
He was about to repeat the stupid joke, try to make Cash chuckle, when the door swung open. Ray turned as a plump woman in a power suit huffed into the room.  
  
  
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, settling on the other side of the conference table. “It was short notice.” She opened her briefcase and started pulling out files and papers, arranging them fussily into piles.  
  
  
“So,” Ray said, abruptly. “What am I doing here?”  
  
  
“We’re here,” the woman replied, equally bluntly, “to work on your cover and ease your entry into the Iguana family.”  
  
  
Ray nearly choked on a crust of pastry. It finally hit him. This was real. They were really going to do this thing. He covered the moment by taking a deep, and scalding swig of coffee.  
  
  
“Fine,” he said. “Before we get started, I’ve got a favour to ask.”  
  
  
“What’s that, Mr Vecchio?”  
  
  
“Could you guys wear nametags? I don’t know if you noticed, but you run around the place all ‘freeze FBI,’ and I don’t have a clue who any of you are. Kinda puts you off your game, you know?”  
  
  
“Of course. I’m Doctor Connors. You can call me Rose. You already know Agent Cash. Later this morning you’ll be meeting with other members of the team. Sorry about the early start, but we need to get moving on this as soon as possible.”  
  
  
“Actually,” Cash corrected her, “Detective Vecchio was already up and about.” He gave one of his ‘farm boy’ open smiles at Ray. “I didn’t even have to knock on his front door.”  
  
  
“You’re naturally an early riser then?” She made a note.  
  
  
“No.”  
  
  
“Ah. Have you been suffering from insomnia?”  
  
  
 _Well, that’s a bit of a leap - I get up early one morning, and the Feds want to make a big thing of it._ Ray was about to ask her what her problem was, then he realised.  
  
  
 _Oh. Oh yeah. They’ve been listening._ They must have heard him, moving around the house in the middle of the night, talking to Frannie in the kitchen _._  
  
  
“I’ve been suffering from babies,” Ray said, not denying the insomnia, but not admitting it either. “My nephew’s teething.”  
  
  
“Ouch.”  
  
  
“Tell me about it.” Ray cleared his throat. “So, you’re a doctor?”  
  
  
“Yes. I’m a psychiatrist.” She looked up from her note taking, and furrowed her brow. Ray realised he was glaring at her. “Why? It doesn’t bother you, does it?”  
  
  
Ray shrugged, forcing himself to relax. “No. Not really. I’ve worked undercover before. Not deep like this, but I know you’ve got to have a shrink on board.”  
  
  
“Yes, I’ve looked at the records of your previous undercover work,” she said, and smiled encouragingly. “You’ve coped well, and never had a problem before in retaining a healthy sense of self.”  
  
  
“Well, that’s nice to know, Doctor.”  
  
  
“Rose. May I call you Ray?”  
  
  
“You can call me anything you like, Rose. You can call me Armando, for all I care. Guess I’ll have to get used to it.”  
  
  
“I think we’ll forgo that stage. People will be calling you Armando soon enough.”  
  
  
“Whatever. So, go on.” He pushed his plate of crumbs away, then grabbed a pen out of a cup in the middle of the table. “Hit me. Where’s the questionnaire?” There was always a questionnaire. Then a bunch of inkblots. Word associations… Okay, he hadn’t had a chance to rehearse for it, but he knew what to expect.  
  
  
“Ah,” she said. “Well, we’re going to do things a bit differently.”  
  
  
Ray threw the pen back at the cup and missed.  
  
  
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”  
  
  
“Before we get started,” she said, “let me explain a few things. Normally, if I were seeing a new patient, I would see them alone. Obviously this is not a normal situation. Privacy still applies inasmuch as only those who need to know will be aware of your medical notes, but there will be people outside of the medical profession involved in this operation who will need access to your files.”  
  
  
“Hang on… you’re saying things are private, but not really?”  
  
  
“I’m saying that as matters stand a wider range of service personnel than -”  
  
  
Cash shook his head, crossly. “I think what Rose is trying to say is that the guys running the operation and your handlers, people like me and whoever else they get in, will need to know whether you’re crackers or not.”  
  
  
“I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,” the doctor said huffily, and Ray laughed, grateful that Cash was trying cut through the crap and inject a little humour into the situation.  
  
  
“Well, I’m glad someone did, or I’d have thought it was just me. You know it’s not paranoia when people really are out to get you?”  
  
  
“And do you think people are out to get you, Ray?”  
  
  
“Nah. I think I’ve already been good and got.”  
  
  
She pursed her lips. “Interesting.”  
  
  
Ray started feeling tension in his stomach, acid churning. He shouldn’t have drunk the coffee so fast. _Could be worse,_ he thought. _Cash has been drinking from the same flask as me, so at least they haven’t drugged the coffee._  
  
  
Yeah - so maybe he was just a little bit paranoid.  
  
  
“What would you call it?” he asked.  
  
  
“What would I call what?”  
  
  
“This. How I got here.” He leant back in his chair, folded his arms. “You know how they got me to take this gig, don’t you?”  
  
  
She didn’t say anything, but a flicker of embarrassment crossed her face, confirming his suspicions. _Oh yeah. You know._  
  
  
“Well,” she said, avoiding the question. “Let’s get started. I have looked through your medical record in an attempt to set up a baseline. We’ll need that as we monitor your status over the course of the operation. I want us all to be very clear where we stand, so that if there’s ever a problem we’ll see it immediately.”  
  
  
“And you think there’s going to be a problem?”  
  
  
“There usually is in this sort of situation. Identity can be a very fragile thing.”  
  
  
“I’m a cop, dammit.” He bit his tongue to stop himself yelling. “I’m not gonna switch sides.” _Fucking hell, do they honestly think I’d do that?_   “You think I’ll go native?”  
  
  
“I think,” she said, staring at him sharply, “it will be very hard for you to retain emotional distance, given that the man you are impersonating was, in fact, your identical twin brother. You’ve already asked me to call you Armando.”  
  
  
Ray swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.  
  
  
She looked back at her notes. “I have to say, if it were up to me, I would not be recommending you for this operation. Your undercover work in the past has been satisfactory…” she frowned at something on the file, “if at times a little bit unorthodox. But I think this cuts too close to home.” She sighed, put down her file, and looked him in the eyes. “But the higher ups seem to think you can do it, and really, there isn’t anyone else.”  
  
  
“Yeah. So everyone keeps telling me,” he muttered.  
  
  
“Ray,” she said, and he bridled at the use of his name. _What else is she gonna call you? Get a grip, Vecchio._ He’d said she could call him anything, but he was surprised how much he hated it when she actually used his name.  
  
  
“What?” he snapped back.  
  
  
“Ray, I’ve gone right into your medical history. You are in good physical health, you’ll be glad to hear,” she paused for a beat, smiling, as though to give him a chance to chuckle, or make a quip. He stared at her grimly instead, and she continued. “I’ll be honest, your mental health is a cause for some concern.”  
  
  
“It can’t be that bad, or someone would have picked up on it by now,” he pointed out, trying not to sound too defensive. “Chicago PD might be a bunch of amateur flatfoots to you guys, but they do check to see if we have all our marbles before setting us loose with guns.”  
  
  
“Things have changed,” she said, “since your last psych review. And besides, it says here,” she lifted a typed document from the folder, “that you’ve always had a problem with authority, and that despite your strong family values and deeply felt friendships you’ve always been something of a loner.”  
  
  
“It says that, does it?” Ray scowled at the sheet of paper. He’d like to get a look at that file sometime, see what else the bastard Feds were saying about him.  
  
  
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “And this was before you knew about your father’s crimes, and what he did to Armando.”  
  
  
Ray reached out to the flask, and automatically poured himself another coffee, just to have something to do with his hands.  
  
  
“I suppose your next line is going to be ‘how does that make you feel,’ am I right?”  
  
  
“Well, how _does_ it make you feel?”  
  
  
“It’s not like I should be surprised, really.” Ray sipped coffee, not sure if he was more uncomfortable because of Connor’s inquisition, or Cash’s patient silence. He turned his head away from them both, looked back out the window. It was like there was nothing between him and the long drop outside. _Hey, maybe they’ll let me get out of this gig if I tell ‘em I want to jump…_ He blinked at the shocking thought, so startled that a huff of laughter broke past his lips. _Nah. Fuck it. Knowing my luck, they’d gimme a push._  
  
  
The doctor was still waiting for his answer. How did he feel?  
  
  
“My father was a piece of work,” he said, making himself sound blank. “That’s all. It’s nothing new.”  
  
  
“But your knowledge of what he did is new. Tell me about Armando.”  
  
  
“You know more about him than I do. My mother called him Giuseppe. That’s all I know.”  
  
  
“You seemed to know the moment that he died. Tell me about that.”  
  
  
Ray stomped his cup down hard on the table. Coffee sloshed over the rim, scalding his fingers. The doctor looked at him calmly. “Isn’t it in there,” he snapped, jerking his thumb at the open briefcase, and the files on the table. “You guys were listening at the time.”  
  
  
“Tell me about what happened,” she said, persistently, “the night you went into hospital.”  
  
  
“What about it?”  
  
  
“It sounded like you were having a conversation with Armando.”  
  
  
He gave her a dirty look. “You guys asked me this already. I was delirious.”  
  
  
“Still,” she said. “The timing was very strange.”  
  
  
“Yeah, well. Next time I’ll check my diary. I can’t help when I get sick.”  
  
  
She pursed her lips. “That’s not what I meant.”  
  
  
“Yeah. I know, but what do you expect me to say? I was out of it. I dunno what happened.”  
  
  
She conceded his point with a nod.  
  
  
“Have you ever seen a ghost before?”  
  
  
Ghosts. The FBI was asking him about ghosts. What was this, the fucking ‘X-Files?’ No way did the Feds believe in ghosts.  
  
  
“In the morgue,” she said, “you knew the details of Armando’s injuries.” She stared over her notes as though they didn’t make sense. Yeah - well. From her point of view they wouldn’t, would they? None of this made sense. “You knew the nature of his accident.” She had a ‘what the fuck,’ expression on her face, but was doing her best to hide it. It was almost funny how puzzled she looked. “Can you explain how you knew?”  
  
  
“No,” he said simply. “It’s just one of them ‘heaven and earth’ things.”  
  
  
He couldn’t really tell her anything else. The Feds might think something hinky was going on, but they’d rationalise the whole damn thing. No wonder this psychiatrist woman was giving him the third degree. _This is gonna look really good at my next psych review. The FBI think I’m a lunatic._  
  
  
Maybe he was.  
  
  
Ray shoved his chair back, walked over to the window, hands in his pockets, and looked down. He used to be scared of heights, before Benny had dragged him over every rooftop in Chicago. Aversion therapy or something… like, if you’re scared of spiders, go to the zoo and visit the tarantulas. He leant his head against the glass, and looked down, enjoying the rush of dizziness that swept up through the soles of his feet. Pins and needles. A red hot tingle, and in his head a goading whisper: ‘ _Jump.’_ He saw it, for a moment, him stepping out into empty air. Not falling, but flying.  
  
  
He’d never jump.  
  
  
“Ray,” she continued. “Have you ever seen a ghost before?”  
  
  
“So what if I did?” he said, tiredly. “What’s that got to do with going undercover?”  
  
  
“We are trying to establish what your underlying mental health is like, so that if there are any warning signs we can step in to help before things get too bad.”  
  
  
“Yeah? Well, what have ghosts got to do with that? Are you gonna tell me now Armando wasn’t real, that I just hallucinated him? You know that makes no sense.”  
  
  
“Whether he’s real or not is, in some ways, irrelevant.”  
  
  
“Irrelevant?” Ray turned, and gaped at her, incredulously. He turned to Cash for moral support. “You hearing this? Apparently it doesn’t matter if I’m hallucinating or not.” Cash looked at his hands, and said nothing. Ray kicked his way back to the table, scraped back his chair, and dropped into it. He was about to swear, but bit it off. Didn’t want to give her too much ammo.  
  
  
“What I mean,” she said gently, “is that what matters is not so much what he is as what he represents. When do you see him? If, for example, he’s someone you see when you’re stressed, then an increase in… for lack of a better word let’s call them ‘visitations.’ An increase in visitations might be an early warning sign that you’re getting into difficulties.”  
  
  
“Or, let’s say he’s real… it might just be a sign that the afterlife is pretty boring, and he needs to hang out and have a chat with someone once in a while.”  
  
  
“He chats to you?”  
  
  
“No!” God, he really did sound crazy. “No, he doesn’t say anything.”  
  
  
“Okay. So…” she opened the file, and looked through her papers. “Hm,” she said, pondering. “So, it says here that you knew his daughter’s name. I have the transcript here… let me check…”  
  
  
Ray glared across at Cash, who spread his hands out, apologetically. Okay, so Ray had known his ‘interviews’ with the FBI must have been recorded, but it was a bit much to have his face rubbed in it. Were they recording this now? _Doctor patient confidentiality, my ass._  
  
  
“So,” she asked. “If he doesn’t speak how did he tell you his daughter’s name?”  
  
  
Ray groaned. “I’m not crazy.”  
  
  
“I don’t think you are.”  
  
  
“Liar,” he muttered. “Okay… I just kinda knew. He was there, and I just knew.”  
  
  
“Like a voice in your head?”  
  
  
“No! Stop putting words in my mouth.” Though he knew exactly what Armando’s voice felt like…  
  
  
“Okay. I’m sorry. So. How many times have you seen Armando?”  
  
  
“I dunno. You want me to keep a tally?”  
  
  
“A few times then?”  
  
  
Ray rolled his eyes.  
  
  
“And I assume there have been other ghosts?”  
  
  
 _Other ghosts? What do they think I am, a spirit medium?_  
  
  
“No,” he snapped. “Only one.” _Shit,_ he realised. _I shouldn’t have told ‘em that…_  
  
  
“Okay. Tell us about this ghost. What’s it like?”  
  
  
“Dead, what do you think? Can we talk about something else now?”  
  
  
“You seem very defensive,” she said. “Is it the ghost of the priest who abused you?”  
  
  
“Hey,” Cash shouted, getting to his feet before Ray could even respond. “Leave it. How’s this meant to help anything?”  
  
  
“I’m sorry. I have to ask these questions…”  
  
  
“No you don’t.”  
  
  
She looked angry, but relented. She shrugged a little, then continued with her questioning.  
  
  
Ray was dizzy - like he’d just been hit upside the head. Even so, he tucked it away - Doctor Connors was a little older than both Ray and Cash, but when Cash told the woman to back off, she did. The guy might look like an innocent farm boy, but in this room it was clear who was in charge.  
  
  
She was talking again. “…sorry to have to ask these questions, but in light of recent revelations we did go over your childhood medical notes. Are you okay to talk about this?”  
  
  
He still felt concussed, knocked sideways. He grunted, and nodded dumbly while her voice faded in and out.  
  
  
“…nowadays of course a child who presented with these patterns of repeated injury would come to the attention of social services, but at the time it seems everyone missed it. I see here from your X-rays…”  
  
  
This was a nice room, actually, now that he thought about it. The sun was higher in the sky now, coming through the glass, and the light was golden. Not Italy golden. He’d only been to Italy once when he was a teenager. But a cleaner sun than Chicago had when they were down in the streets. When he looked out the window, there were geese flying across the lake, actually beneath them. Benny would like that. Benny liked nature.  
  
  
“…so if there’s anything else you can tell us, that would be really helpful. How much of this do you remember…”  
  
  
“Detective? Detective Vecchio?”  
  
  
Cash was passing his hand back and forth across his field of vision. Ray blinked. His hands were gripping the edges of his seat, full of pins and needles. When he released them, his fingers were stiff, still in hooks, as though he’d been hanging on for dear life.  
  
  
“Sorry. What were we talking about?”  
  
  
“Nothing,” Cash said. “Time we took a break.” He glared at the doctor. “We’ll pick this up later.”  
  
  
The woman nodded, looking at Ray intently. What was her name?  
  
  
“Yeah, thanks, Rose,” Ray reached across the table and shook her hand, straightening out his knuckles. He was feeling guilty for making her feel bad. He had a feeling that he’d done something wrong. No wonder she was looking at him funny. “Sorry I dropped off. I was tired there.”  
  
  
“That’s fine,” she said, and patted his hand. It struck him as an odd gesture, clumsy, as though for some reason she was trying to comfort him. “I’ll see you later.”  
  
  
“Come on,” said Cash. “Don’t know about you, but I want a proper breakfast. Bacon and eggs.”  
  
  
“Sounds good.” Ray was feeling unaccountably lightheaded. Some food would ground him. “You guys are buying though.”  
  
  
“Sure thing,” said Cash. He seemed as friendly as usual, but Ray couldn’t help feeling he’d missed something.  
  
  
“So, you and Rose then,” he teased, as he followed Cash to the elevator.  
  
  
“Excuse me?” Cash’s neck went pink, and Ray laughed.  
  
  
 _Oh yeah. I totally called it. These guys got baggage._  
  
  
“When did you guys break up?”  
  
  
Cash opened his mouth and shut it again, looking surprised.  
  
  
“Hey, I’m a detective. You know, you two gotta stop snapping at each other. I seen enough office romances that I can spot the signs a mile off.” He nudged Cash. “Nobody’s that pissy unless they got history.”  
  
  
Cash shook his head a little bit, looking suitably embarrassed at being busted. “Okay. I’ll work on that.”  
  
  
Ray chuckled. _Poor guy - at least I never had to work with an ex._  
  
  
He realised, as he approached the dining area, that he was actually feeling hungry now. He was a lot more confident than he had been that he could do this damn job. Still... He wished he hadn’t fallen asleep like that, right in front of Cash and Rose. He was sure she’d asked him something - for a moment he almost remembered. Something about Pa? No. It was gone again. He’d forgotten something that she’d said.  
  
  
He shrugged off the uncomfortable feeling. He was probably just tired and hungry. Those pastries really had been as dry as dust.

  
~*~  
  
  
The rest of the day was a blur of activity. He felt like he was an actor preparing for a role, or a kid cramming for an exam. He remembered when he’d been at college, the feeling of not quite panic when you sat up all night writing a paper just before the deadline. He’d been working nights in the canning factory, and was always running behind the other students, playing catch up. He always managed to get it done, always managed to fool the examiners into giving him a good grade, usually by the skin of his teeth.  
  
  
His life had never depended on it before.  
  
  
“So,” the redheaded woman sitting next to him asked. Stacey, or Tracey, or Lacey. She was wearing her nametag, but he couldn’t see it without turning right around and looking at her breasts. He tried not to laugh at the idea and concentrated on the task at hand. He didn’t want to clutter his head remembering the names of Feds while he was trying to cram up on Mafiosi. “Let’s see how well you remember these guys.” She pulled a stack of glossy photos out of her suitcase, and passed them to him. “I want you to put names to the photos, organise them according to rank, and tell me everything you remember about them.”  
  
  
Ray nodded. This he could do. He shuffled the first stack of photos rapidly, started dealing them like cards, snap, snap, snap on the table.  
  
  
“Salvatore Iguana,” he said of the tall, muscular man with greying curly hair. Movie star handsome. This one was easy. “Occasionally called Sammy, though Armando called him Sal.”  
  
  
“Calls him Sal,” she corrected him. “Remember, you’re Armando now.”  
  
  
“Yeah. Right. I’m his _consigliere._ Have been for twelve years. He’s also my maternal cousin.” Ray sneered at the thought of Ma Langoustini. He was going to have trouble calling the old bitch ‘Ma.’  
  
  
“We’ll fill you in on your history later. Carry on with the names.”  
  
  
“Okay. Sal’s married to Margarita, they have three kids. He’s been _capofamiglia_ for the last three years. If it’s not him, it’s his brother… here.”  
  
  
This guy wasn’t as good looking as Sal, though you could see they were related. A bit overweight, doughy looking. “Giacomo,” Ray said, “but everyone calls him Jackie. Widowed, one daughter, Maria. They’re estranged. She’s living in Italy, they haven’t talked for years. Jackie’s had a string of girlfriends since his wife died, and right now he’s dating an outsider. It doesn’t seem to be serious. He’s Sal’s underboss, though in the past it’s been the other way round.” Ray started sliding the photos around the table, into a branching family tree. “This guy is one of Sal’s _capos_ … Manny. It’s his first year on the job… he’s nervous, and they’re keeping an eye on him. He’s got about ten guys reporting to him.” Ray frowned. “Unfortunately, we don’t know most of them.”  
  
  
“So you’ll have to think quickly when you meet new guys. Figure out from body language and other cues whether you know them or not.”  
  
  
“Yeah. I got that. Okay. This one’s another Sammy, he’s better established, got more soldiers. We know some of his. This one here…”  
  
  
The time passed quickly, and by the end of it Ray had named and identified each of the photographs, sketching in what biographical detail they knew, and placing them correctly in the hierarchy. He sat back, looking at the long table, covered with photos, and mentally patted himself on the back. Not to blow his own trumpet, but he could tell the Feds were quietly impressed.  
  
  
“Good,” the red headed woman said. She was on the other side of the table now, examining his handiwork, and he could see her nametag. Tracy. “Very good. Well, we’ll do this again tomorrow, and up until you go under. Tomorrow we’re going to be drilling you on Armando’s history.” She paused. “If you have any gaps in your knowledge while you’re under, you can pass it off for a little while at least as amnesia relating to the accident. But we can’t rely on that for long, because any sign of weakness could jeopardise your position in the family. Any questions?”  
  
  
“Yeah.” He gestured at the faces arranged across the table. “These guys seem pretty tight, even for the Mob. You lot have been trying for years to get in on this lot, and you’ve not managed yet. So, what happens if you’ve missed something, and I fuck up?”  
  
  
“We’ll do everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen…”  
  
  
“Yeah, I know that. And I’ll be trying not to die, believe me. But if you can’t get me out, will you at least make sure you bring me back home?”  
  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
  
“So my Ma can bury me. Think you can do that?”  
  
  
“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, we’ll do that.”  
  
  
Thank God for at least that.  
  
  
“Thank you,” he said, and closed his eyes. “Thanks.”  
  


~*~  
  
  
“There’s one last task we need you to do,” Cash said, just before they wrapped up for the day. “When it’s done, we’ll get you home.” He sighed. “I know we’ve put a lot into this op, and I know we’ve put you through hell, but I just want you to know that whatever happens now, I know you’ve done your best.”  
  
  
“What are you talking about? Ray was feeling frayed around the edges. He’d been at it for over ten hours, and was beginning to get rattled.  
  
  
“We need to start easing you in. Armando’s been missing for over a week. The Langoustinis are pretty worried right now, the other families are moving, and if we don’t get in there soon, there’s going to be another Mob war. You’re going to need to talk to them before we put you in place, and you’re going to need to persuade them that you are who you say you are.”  
  
  
“Talk to them on the phone?” Ray nodded. “I can do that.”  
  
  
“No,” Cash said. “We’re going to need set up a video link. We’ve already set things in motion. They know that Armando’s made contact, wants to talk to Sal.”  
  
  
“Okay…”  
  
  
“It’s not quite a face-to-face, but he’ll be able to see you, you’ll be able to see him. This will show us if you can handle it. You have to be able to carry this off. Think you’re up to it?”  
  
  
“Well, let’s find out.”  
  
  
Cash looked at him critically. “Normally Armando’s a sharp dresser. I know I got you on a bad day, and you’ve not had a chance to shave or get smartened up, but maybe that’s a good thing.”  
  
  
“Hey, I don’t look that bad do I?”  
  
  
“You look a little bit rough,” Cash said, apologetically. “But then, Armando’s been in hiding for over a week, so the look might work for you. One thing…”  
  
  
“What?”  
  
  
“Lose the turtle neck.”  
  
  
Ray flushed. “I don’t want everyone looking at my throat.”  
  
  
“It’ll look good on camera. Authentic.”  
  
  
“Just as well you guys roughed me up then, isn’t it?”  
  
  
Cash looked pained, then managed a little smile. “Perhaps. You ready?”  
  
  
“No.” Ray stood, and pulled off his sweater, feeling exposed and foolish in his brightly coloured shirt. “Last time I did undercover,” he explained, in case they thought he dressed like that by choice. “I mean, not real undercover. By day, I was a cop in crappy clothing. By night I was a grifter… in crappy clothing.”  
  
  
Cash laughed. “That was back when you first partnered up with the Mountie, wasn’t it?”  
  
  
“Yeah. God knows what he thought of my dress sense.”  
  
  
“The guy dresses in red, who cares what he thinks?” Cash was trying to keep the mood light, but Ray thinned his lips, angry with the man for teasing his friend. He folded his arms.  
  
  
“Okay, so where’s this camera?”  
  
  
The virtual meeting was set up in a side room not much bigger than the supply closet at the station.  
  
  
Ray sat facing a camera and a computer monitor, while a technician muttered and arranged the props. “Needs to look anonymous,” he said as he slid a screen behind Ray’s chair. “Like you’re sitting in a motel in the middle of nowhere. Hang on while I fix the lighting…” He was fiddling with something that looked more like an egg crate than a light. The guy saw Ray staring at it, and explained. “We’re gonna make it look like there’s a window over there.”  
  
  
There actually _was_ a window over there. Okay - it was the size of a postage stamp, but it was still a window.  
  
  
“Why don’t you just open the curtains?”  
  
  
“We need to control the effect. We don’t want anything going past the window that might give them a clue about your location.”  
  
  
“Up here? What, you reckon they’re gonna hear the 'L' go past? We’re like a mile in the sky.”  
  
  
The guy grinned a little, and carried on working. “Yeah, well. You never know. You’d be surprised what could give ‘em a clue. Migratory birds or something.”  
  
  
“They wouldn’t see the birds.”  
  
  
“They might see the shadows.” The guy untangled some wires. “Better safe than sorry.”  
  
  
Ray couldn’t argue with that.  
  
  
“Okay,” the tech guy said, finally standing back and appraising his work. “That’s good. You’re good to go.” He stepped back, and sat with Cash and a couple of other Feds behind the monitor. Cash had headphones on, and a monitor of his own, so he could see what Ray was seeing, while watching his performance. Cash lifted three fingers, and began to count down. Three, two, one… “Now,” he mouthed at him.  
  
  
Ray flicked on the machine. The face of Salvatore Langoustini appeared before him on the monitor. Ray stared.  
  
  
“Armando?”  
  
  
Ray coughed, cleared his throat. _Shit, I can’t do this…_  
  
  
“Sal?”  
  
  
“God Almighty, Mando. Where the hell have you been? We’ve been going crazy looking for you. First we thought someone had taken a hit out on you… they found your car wrecked by the side of the road. Then we thought the Feds had turned you, and you were in witness protection somewhere…”  
  
  
Ray laughed, sharply, channeling all his hatred for Sharma. “The Feds,” he said, bitterly. “Is that what you think of me, after all we’ve been through together? That I’d work for the fucking Feds?”  
  
  
“I know, I know… I told ‘em that.” Sal’s face was a little out of focus, too near the camera, and part of his left eye was out of shot. He must be leaning up close to his computer screen. “Jeez, Mando, what the hell happened? You look like shit.”  
  
  
“I feel like shit,” Ray spat out. “Someone tried to kill me. Someone killed…” his throat closed up. He was going to use a little girl’s death as a cover story. He blinked, and his breath hitched tight. His ribs were still sore, and he realised he’d done it again - left his antibiotics in the bathroom. _Clever, clever,_ he thought, sarcastically. Still - at least it meant he was sweating. Sal would think he was sick... _I am sick,_ he realised, suddenly, feeling panic in his chest. _I gotta remember to take ‘em when I get home, or I’ll end up back in hospital. Shit._  
  
  
He blinked at the screen, tried to remember what he was doing here. “Someone killed…”  
  
  
“Oh God,” Sal was leaning back now, and Ray could see him clearly, from the shoulders up. He looked horrified, full of sympathy and pain. Somebody’s good friend reacting to terrible news. Ray covered his face so he didn’t have to see the monster as a man, and managed to say it. “Chiara. Someone killed Chiara.”  
  
  
When he looked up Armando was sitting next to him. His brother turned and embraced him, and Ray felt the cold shudder running through him as the ghost wept. He realised dimly that he was crying too.  
  
  
“Mando,” Sal’s voice was gentle. “Oh God, Mando, I’m so sorry.”  
  
  
Ray pulled himself together. Armando was gone. Wiping his face, ashamed of breaking down in front of the Feds, even more ashamed they might think he was putting it on, he leant forward, glaring at Sal.  
  
  
“Are you? Are you sorry?”  
  
  
“God, what… you think I did this?”  
  
  
“Someone did,” Ray said, and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Sal. I know better, I know it isn’t you. But... it’s somebody. Someone did this to us…”  
  
  
“We’ll find ‘em,” Sal said, urgently. “We’ll find ‘em, and they’ll pay.”  
  
  
Ray nodded, wearily. “Blood for blood.” It seemed the kind of thing Armando would say.  
  
  
“Yeah,” Sal agreed, like a vow. “Blood for blood.” After a moment, the man cleared his throat. “But, Mando, I still have to tell ‘em something. What the hell did happen? We heard your car was crashed up by your cabin, when we got to it the cops were already there, air ambulances and so on. We thought you’d all be at the hospital, but there was only Joey.”  
  
  
Ray started blinking hard. The other child who had been in the back of the car. The other treble voice singing.  
  
  
Shit. He wasn’t up to this. The Feds had told him earlier that Armando had a son who’d survived, but he’d somehow blanked it, like he seemed to blank a lot of things. He hadn’t wanted to think about Armando’s children.  
  
  
“Is he…” He stared at Sal. “Is Joey okay?”  
  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, Mando, he’s fine. They had him in a… you wanna hear this?”  
  
  
“Yes, dammit,” he shouted. “Yes, I wanna hear. What happened to him?”  
  
  
“He… he had a head trauma. Some bleeding on the brain. They put him in a coma or something, so he could rest, and the swelling went down. They drained the blood, and it looks like he’s gonna be fine. He’s talking okay, can’t remember a lot about it. They’ve still got him up at the hospital, but he’s gonna be okay.”  
  
  
Ray closed his eyes, felt his brother beside him again.  
  
  
“Thank God,” he said, and shuddered. Armando was standing by his son’s bedside, watching the monitors, watching the slow drip of the IV, and Ray stood with him… “Thank God he’s okay,” Ray said, from the heart.  
  
  
“So, what happened to you and Chiara? Why weren’t you there when the ambulance turned up?”  
  
  
Ray snapped his eyes back open, the story that they had decided on slotting into place.  
  
  
“When the car went over, I thought the engine might explode,” he said. “I got Chiara first, tried to carry her out of the way of any blast. But then someone started shooting.” He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to leave Joey, but knew I couldn’t get to him. The only one I could save was Chiara.” He started blinking again. “I couldn’t save Chiara.”  
  
  
“Mando, Mando, Mando,” the mobster was saying. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. Where did you go then?”  
  
  
“I got to one of the other cabins. Old man Simmons, you know, the doctor? They weren’t there, so I went round back, got his car. Put Chiara in the back seat, and took off.”  
  
  
“Where did you go? Where are you now?”  
  
  
“Think I’m going to tell you that?” Ray leant forward aggressively and snarled. “You think I’m an idiot? How the hell do we know who’s listening?”  
  
  
“Okay. Okay…” Sal was making soothing gestures. “But you’re alright now?”  
  
  
“Yeah.” Ray shook his head. “No. No, I’m not. By the time I got here, Chiara had died. I kinda… went a bit to pieces after that.”  
  
  
“Listen, Mando, we’ll come get you. Let us come get you. You know you can trust me,” Sal said.  
  
  
Ray looked at him, mute. Could he trust this guy? He tried to remember what he’d read so far of Armando’s file. His brain went blank, and he felt a shudder as his brother slid in close… too close. His hand was resting on Ray’s hand, and slipped into it, like a glove. Ray started shaking. All of a sudden, the room went horribly cold and there was a slime-wet slither. He hitched with pain as his chest hurt, and then Armando was sitting in his skin.  
  
  
“I don’t know,” Armando whispered. Ray’s tongue felt fat in his mouth. His brother was speaking through him. _Oh God,_ he panicked. _That's disgusting._ He felt, rather than heard, his voice stumble over the words as the ghost tried to remember how to talk. “You know I never stole from you, I never cheated you. We’ve been like brothers, Sal. Why would you do this to me? To Chiara? I’d like to think it wasn’t you, but…”  
  
  
“Mando,” Sal said, and he looked like he wanted to lean right through the computer screen and give him a hug. “You just tell me what you need. Anything. You know that. We’ll figure it out. We need you home, Joey needs you home. Even Lexie needs you home.”  
  
  
Alexie Langoustini, Ray thought, trapped in the back of his own skull, right behind Armando. His brother’s estranged wife. He was going to have to meet his brother’s wife and tell her that her little girl had died…  
  
  
“And you need to come home,” Sal was saying. “You need to bury Chiara.”  
  
  
With a snap Armando was gone, and Ray was blinking hard at the camera. “Sal,” he said, and then coughed. “Sal,” he repeated, “I need to know I can trust you. Let me do this my way. I’ll come home. I’ll bring Chiara home.”  
  
  
“Where do you want us to meet you?”  
  
  
“I’ll let you know.”  
  
  
“Okay.” Sal sat back. “God Almighty, Mando, I’ll be glad to get you home.”  
  
  
“Yeah,” Ray forced a smile. “Yeah. I’ll see you soon.” He reached forward, and switched off the machine, cutting the conversation.  
  
  
There was a long silence, and then Ray was startled by applause. He had forgotten the Feds were even there.  
  
  
“Good job,” Cash was saying. “Absolutely fantastic.”  
  
  
“Yeah?” Ray was feeling somewhat dazed.  
  
  
“I should have known,” Cash said, admiringly, “when you started scaring us, that you could be Armando.” He walked around the table, and put his arm on his shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you home.”  
  
  
Ray nodded, dumbly. He was going back to his family, for now.  
  
  
And as promised, they even got him there in time for dinner.  



	10. Chapter 10

Neither Ray nor Cash spoke a word during the drive back to North Octavia. By the time they turned the corner to Ray’s house, the tension was almost unbearable. Ray had guessed his time was running out, but Cash obviously wasn’t allowed to say. The street was deserted and the house dark. A ginger cat lounged on the front steps... _Probably the stray Frannie's been feeding._  
  
  
“We’re early.” Ray managed to break the silence as they pulled up to the curb. “That’s a bad sign, ain’t it? You guys normally keep me going all day.”  
  
  
Cash worked his jaw, clearly wanting to tell him something, then sighed.  
  
  
“We’re up against it now,” he finally admitted. “That’s all I can tell you.”  
  
  
“And you can’t tell me when I’m going, can you?”  
  
  
“No.” Cash’s frown looked like it was carved on his face, as permanent a feature as his chin or nose. “I don’t even know myself, not exactly. But... soon.”  
  
  
“Okay.” Ray stared out across the road. “Well,” he said, “I’ll make the most of the time I have left.” He realised he sounded like a man with a terminal illness, and grimaced. God, he didn’t want Cash to think he was feeling sorry for himself. Poor bastard looked guilty enough. “Listen,” he said, and dropped his hand on the guy’s shoulder. “I’m okay. Thanks.”  
  
  
Cash nodded, and gave a tiny flinch of a smile. Ray threw him a mock salute and got out of the car.  
  
  
The street was so empty it felt almost haunted. _I used to play on that corner, with Paulie,_ he thought, _when I wasn’t teasing him._ For a second he saw his little brother, crying about marbles. _God... I was a dick._ He stepped up onto the porch, and looked to his right. _And that’s where Frannie lost her first baby tooth, and cried because she didn’t know it would grow back..._  
  
  
Ray paused outside his front door, not quite ready to go inside yet. The house  might even be empty at this time of day. Once upon a time he’d have relished that - the idea of having the place to himself. Now the thought of it made his flesh crawl.  
  
  
He stepped back and looked at its mute walls. Stared at the bricks, rust-red like dried blood, and thought of Armando.  
  
  
 _This is the house that Pa built._ The echo of a childhood nursery rhyme flitted through his head, mocking him. _I used to love this house,_ he thought. _Yeah - bad things happened here, but there were good times too._ He thought of all the years of children playing, the raucous dinners, the laughter and the fun. And he’d thought, when Pa left it to him, that it meant something. That the old bastard had loved him, just a little bit, after all. _Maybe he just felt guilty, like he owed me something for Armando._ No. Ray had no idea what Pa thought, or felt, about anything at all.  
  
  
Part of him wished he could sit in the kitchen, Ma’s domain, and never come out again. He could bury himself in the family and noise. The kitchen still felt safe. But the house itself... the house.  
  
  
 _Oh God - now I look at this house and I wish it would burn down._  
  
  
He turned and looked back down the road. Cash had driven off, and the street was quiet. Another hour, and kids would be coming home from school. Little Tony and his friends would be out front, kicking a ball around, playing tag. Until then -  
  
  
Until then the house would be too quiet. He couldn’t stand that. Not silence. He’d come back later, when he knew Ma would have finished her grocery shopping and the kids were home from school. He’d stand at the kitchen counter and chop onions, shred basil for the sauce. He’d make himself busy. He could stand being in that house with other people around, with things to do -  
  
  
He couldn’t face it now.  
  
  
For the second time in less than week, he could think of nothing to do but walk.  
  
  
He walked all the way to the cemetery. All the way up to the grave.  
  
  
Armando wasn’t there. Strange, because he’d been expecting him somehow, but…  
  
  
 _Maybe Armando isn’t coming back._ He examined the thought. He didn’t know if he hoped Armando had gone, or if he was afraid of it. It felt like he wanted to see his brother again, if only to say goodbye. Maybe he’d never get that chance - maybe Armando was finally gone.  
             
  
No. It struck him oddly, a strange knowledge in the heart. Armando was waiting for someone.  
  
  
Ray hunched his fists into his pockets. He wanted to sit, but the ground was still wet. Not soaking, but… He’d done with freezing his bits off. Didn’t want to end up back in hospital again, not when the Feds were so crazy keen to kill him their own way. Besides, this suit had survived a whole week. It was practically a record. He wasn’t about to cover it in grave dirt.  
  
  
He stared down at the little patch of earth, with its flowers and toys. Ma had rearranged things - the blue Riviera was on the top left corner now, and the flowers were slightly faded - maybe a week old.  
  
  
“Who are you waiting for, Armando?” he whispered. And then... he snapped his head up, sharply.  
  
  
There, on the other side of the grave, was Armando. He was staring over Ray’s shoulder at something, a look of pure longing in his eyes.  
  
  
Ray turned and his heart clenched.  
  
  
Ma was frozen to the spot, clutching a little bunch of flowers to her chest.  
  
  
 _Oh, fuck._  
  
  
“Ma,” he said, and hurried to her, wrapped her up tight. She was quivering. “Ma, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I just… I’m sorry.”  
  
  
“You know,” she said. “You know about Giussepe.” Her voice shook. “How long? How long have you known?”  
  
  
“I… I didn’t. Not long. Just… a few days Ma.” How long was it, two weeks now? Less than three.  
  
  
“It was when you were sick, wasn’t it? You saw him. Didn’t you?”  
  
  
“Yeah.” He kissed her, still holding her through her tremors. “Come on, let’s… give him his flowers, okay?”  
  
  
She nodded, and he walked by her side, holding one hand, and helping her steady herself as she knelt at the grave.  
  
  
Ray looked at Armando, looking at her.  
  
  
“What was he like?”  
  
  
“Arm…” He looked at the gravestone, then apologetically at his brother. “Giuseppe?”  
  
  
“Yes.”  
  
  
Ray squatted down next to her. “He… he looked like me.”  
  
  
“You saw him as an adult?”  
  
  
“Yeah, Ma. My age. He… he looked like me, only he had a moustache.”  
  
  
“A moustache,” she laughed at the little detail. “I never pictured him as a man. He was always ‘il mio bambino.’” She smiled at Ray, then traced the line of his upper lip with a finger. It tickled. “A moustache. That would suit him.”  
  
  
“Yeah. Like Uncle Lorenzo when he was younger.” He smiled. “Only on us, it looks cool.”  
  
  
“What did he do? When you saw him?”  
  
  
Ray shifted on his heels. “He, er… he came to see me. Sat on the bed, and put his hand on me, to cool me down. You know the way you do when the kids are sick.”  
  
  
“He soothed your brow?”  
  
  
“Yeah.” She would put it like that. “And then you came in, and…”  
  
  
“He saw me?”  
  
  
“Yeah, Ma. Your hand was here,” he lifted it to his head, pressed it just above his eyebrow. “His was here.” He showed her with his own hand. “And then, he… er…” Ray dropped their hands, and tried to smile. “Then he did this.” He brushed her hair back with his fingers.  
  
  
“I wish I’d known.”  
  
  
 _Tell her._  
  
  
In his head, Armando’s voiceless voice. _Tell her I’m here._  
  
  
Ray couldn’t speak.  
  
  
“Raimondo, what’s wrong?”  
  
  
 _Tell her I’m here._  
  
  
Slowly, he lifted his eyes, to where his brother was standing next to Ma. Ray put his arms around her, and helped her to her feet, then hugged her tight.  
  
  
 _Tell her._  
  
  
“Ma…”  
  
  
Armando was standing near to him... oh God, far too close.  
  
  
“He’s here, isn’t he?”  
  
  
“Yes,” Ray whispered.  
  
  
She closed her eyes.  
  
  
“For years,” she said. “For years and years, I never knew. I never felt it, I couldn’t believe that he was gone. And… they told me I was a bad Catholic. He was dead, he was gone, they said. He hadn’t even...” A tear spilled down her cheek. “He hadn’t even been baptised. Some of them - not all of them, but some of the priests - they told me - they told me -”  
  
  
He squeezed her, shut his eyes. _Oh God, no._ He knew what they had told her.  
  
  
“They told me he was in Hell. But - he wasn’t. How could he be? He was a little baby. How could God put my little boy in Hell? He was an Innocent. And - it never felt like he was dead.”  
  
  
Ray stroked his mother’s face, and she smiled, looked at him. Her eyes were bright with pain. “I told them that. And they said - they said, there are no ghosts, only devils, and I had to let him go.”  
  
  
Ray wiped a tear from her face with his thumb. Her eyes were closed again. Armando stood beside her, one hand stroking her hair.  
  
  
“How could I let him go?” she asked. “I could feel him... it just...” She looked at Ray, almost desperately. “I don’t know how to say it. It makes no sense, I know, but I never quite believed that he had died.” She seemed ashamed. “You probably think I’m mad,” she whispered, looking at the grave. “But... I know it now.” Her voice broke. “My poor Giuseppe  died.”  
  
  
Ray kissed her forehead. He could hardly breathe past the lump in his throat.  
  
  
“They told me it was grief. But -” she turned her head, gazed directly into Armando’s face. “I do feel him now. Why now?”  
  
  
Ray shook his head.  
  
  
“Giuseppe?”  
  
  
Armando smiled at her… and Ray realised with shock that it was a Raimondo smile, not a Bookman smile at all. This was how Ray looked himself, when he smiled at their mother.  
  
  
“He hears you, Ma.”  
  
  
“Where is he?”  
  
  
“Right there…” Armando dipped his head to kiss her cheek, and Ma closed her eyes.  
  
  
“Oh,” she said. “I felt that.” Little tears were spiking her eyelashes, but she wasn’t crying much.  
  
  
“Giuseppe,” she told him, and her voice trembled. “I kissed you once, the day that you were born. Always know your mother loved you.”  
  
  
And Armando was gone.  
  
  
Ma looked up at Ray then, and smiled. “Do you think that he’s at peace?”  
  
  
Ray stretched out, feeling for him. Somehow he knew, somewhere, that his brother was still there. No, Armando was not at peace.  
  
  
He smiled down at Ma, and lied to her face. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think so.”  
  
  
For the first time since he was a child, his mother believed him when he lied.  
  
~*~  
  
  
Ma was at the front of the church, lighting candles. She’d probably have started on her Rosary by now. Ray was standing with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, not looking at the Stations of the Cross.  
  
  
He liked St Michael’s. He’d started visiting since he and Benny first met Father Behan, and he’d never once felt intimidated, or uncomfortable. Perhaps it was because he’d honestly not been thinking of Father Curry for decades. He’d not exactly forgotten what had happened, he’d merely put it in a cupboard with all the other skeletons, and shut the door. At times he’d remember something, or flash on something… smell, usually, the fear of touch that didn’t come. Darkness. But it didn’t happen much. During an investigation into an abuse case, perhaps. Whenever they found a child’s body. But most days, most weeks, months even, Father Curry was kept safely in the dark.  
  
  
Even so, even with the whole dirty thing out in the open, Ray didn’t mind this church. He’d volunteered to help with the kids… ‘troubled juveniles’ it still said in the parish accounts. _‘Wise guys,’_ Ray called them. They laughed and grinned when he said it. Sat there playing cards, and sassing him, and chewing the fat. _Benny must be rubbing off on me..._ He smiled. _Nah, maybe it’s just those brats remind me of myself_. Who knew who they might grow up to be? After all, he’d become a cop. Besides, he liked Father Behan. Somehow Ray had been roped into organising a staff fundraiser at work for Mike’s House, and enjoyed himself so much he’d ended up serving Christmas dinner at the soup kitchen. He’d even rustled up a choir for Easter, with Benny’s unwitting help.  
  
  
The one thing he hadn’t done… hadn’t done it for years and years in fact, was take communion. He’d hardly even been to Mass, other than family funerals, Easter and Christmas, since he and Angie divorced. It wasn’t that he thought the Church frowned on his divorce. Even if they did, he didn’t care… it had been the right thing for him and Angie at the time, and he was glad he’d had the grace to let her go. No… it was just that he felt he could finally stop pretending. Mouthing prayers to a God Who’d turned away.  
  
  
Father Behan was coming from the kitchenette on the side of the church, where the women served coffee after Mass. Ray had helped Ma carry cake and sandwiches here a few times. She’d seemed so pleased that he was involved in a church again, even if he wasn’t worshipping at it. She still went to her old church, but she enjoyed this place, helped out in her own way. He was pretty sure she’d started lighting candles to St Michael for him, asking the saint to help her son rediscover his faith. There she was now, kneeling by the statue. Ray turned his head to Father Behan, who had come up to him, and was smiling at his shoulder.  
  
  
“Ray,” he said.  
  
  
“Yeah. Hi…” Ray shuffled a little. “So, can we do this now?”  
  
  
“Certainly, Ray,” the man said, and Ray had a sudden flash on sound. He’d forgotten that Father Curry had an Irish accent. Or at least… he’d known it, but he’d never compared it to Father Behan’s before. Funny how it didn’t bother him. Father Behan was a completely different man.  
  
  
“It might take awhile,” Ray admitted. “It’s been a long time since I’ve taken communion.”  
  
  
“We don’t have to do it in the confessional,” Father Behan said. “We might be more comfortable next door. We could even sit in my living room.”  
  
  
“No…” Ray grimaced. “It’s kinda odd, but I want to do it here. You know, in a proper church. Proper confessional, proper words and everything.” He looked at Father Behan, then looked away. “I want to… replace a bad memory with a good one. Does that make sense?”  
  
  
“If it makes sense to you, Son, that’s all that matters.”  
  
  
Ray didn’t even mind it when Father Behan called him ‘Son.’  
  
  
“Okay.” Ray took a deep breath, and stepped into the confessional. Knelt, and clasped his hands. Not in prayer, so much as to stop them from shaking. On the other side of the grid, he could hear Father Behan settle himself in, whisper a prayer. Ray’s heart was beating hard, and he was holding himself tightly, trying not to shake.  
  
  
He had to do this.  
  
  
“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit,” he said, surprised by how calm his voice was. “Amen. It has been years since my last confession…” he paused. “I don’t know how many. Maybe ten.”  
  
  
“Go on, Son,” Father Behan said. “I’m listening…”  
  
  
And Father Behan really did listen. He listened to everything… not just about Curry, but about Pa, and how he’d beaten them, and how Ray had been full of rage for years because when he came to an adult for help no help came. He told the priest what Pa had done to Ma, to his brother, and how Ma could never know. And he didn’t tell him any details about his undercover job, just that he was going away. And Father Behan let him talk, and talk until all the toxins had poured out.  
  
  
“Son,” the man said, “it really wasn’t your fault. What that priest did dishonoured him, not you. What your father did condemned himself, not you.”  
  
  
Ray nodded, not quite believing it. “What’s my penance?” he asked, stuttering on the word ‘penance.’ He was still in a state of shock, that he’d told anyone, let alone a priest, about the penances that Curry had set.  
  
  
“I think you’ve served your time, Son,” Father Behan said. “I’ll not give you prayers for penance, or any tasks to carry out, but if you look on the shelf just to your right, you’ll find a Bible. I want you to find a verse, read it out to me.”  
  
  
“Okay,” Ray said, doubtfully. What kind of priest was Behan anyway? Couldn’t he at least tell him to say the Our Father or light a candle?  
  
  
“Look up Matthew, chapter eighteen, verse six. Read it to me.”  
  
  
Ray fumbled through the book till he found the right page. His voice shook as he read.  
  
  
“’Whoever harms one of these little ones that believes in me, it would be better for him if a millstone were tied around his neck and he were drowned in the depths of the ocean.’” He stared at the words, read them again, silently.  
  
  
“You understand what that means, don’t you, Son? God never wanted you to endure that. Those men are accountable to Him for their crimes.”  
  
  
“Yes, Father.”  
  
  
“Okay then. Well, you said you wanted to do this the traditional way. The Act of Contrition is written out on the card, next to the Bible. You can read it in Latin or English. Either is fine.”  
  
  
Ray took the little laminated sheet of paper, even though he knew the words by heart - had known them since he was seven years old. He read the prayer... and he really did feel lighter. Like something had been lifted from his shoulders, or something washed away.  
  
  
That afternoon, the family went to Mass together. Ma cried and held his hand after he’d taken communion. He hugged her, and tried not to cry himself, since it would only make her worse. Frannie’s makeup had run all down her face, and Maria’s face was pinched and pale. Tony held her tight, and couldn’t bring himself to look at anyone. Little Tony bobbed up and down, looking proud as punch, even though he was crying because he was going to miss his uncle. Angelica looked much older, and very like her mother as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. None of them knew much about what he was doing, but they knew enough.  
  
  
Ray stooped down and kissed baby Vito, who was fast asleep in his pushchair. Turned to Father Behan, who had presided over the small impromptu Mass, and discovered that his voice wasn’t working. He nodded his thanks instead. Kissed everyone again. He even kissed big Tony on the cheek, and Tony hugged and kissed him back.  
  
  
And then there were footsteps coming down the long aisle.  
  
  
“Detective Vecchio,” came a quiet voice. Ray turned. They’d sent someone anonymous to collect him. “It’s time to go.”  
  
  
Ray nodded, turned to the Tabernacle, and genuflected. Turned again, and followed the FBI agent out of the church, and into the waiting car.  
  
  
They stopped off at the twenty seventh precinct just before the final departure. The bullpen was empty, for once. Welsh was waiting for him in his office.  
  
  
“Detective,” he said, gently. “I’m glad you got here on time. I managed to get the Mountie on the phone.”  
  
  
“Thank you, Sir,” Ray said, gruffly. “I’ll take it at my desk.” It felt important, somehow, to talk to Benny one last time in territory that still felt like his own.  
  
  
The phone hissed with static, and for a moment Ray was afraid they’d lose the connection. “Hello, Ray?”  
  
  
“Hey, Benny.” His heart constricted with a hard and painful joy. Benny’s voice… very distant. He was probably taking the call from the back of a canoe, or somebody’s igloo… but Benny’s voice all the same. He’d missed it. “How's the vacation going?  
  
  
He could tell that his friend was smiling on the other end of the line. “It's everything a Mountie could ask for, Ray. Lots of fresh air, plenty of exercise. How are things in Chicago?”  
  
  
“Well, you know, Benny. Chicago's Chicago.” He paused for a moment. He didn’t really know how to say this… “Listen, I'm just calling to let you know that I may not be there at the train to pick you up.”  
  
  
“Well that's no hardship, Ray. I have legs. I can walk.”  
  
  
“I know you have legs, Benny. That's not the point. I'm just calling to let you know that you may be on your own for a while.” He winced at his own voice. He was almost angry - this might be the last time he’d ever speak to his friend, and he couldn’t tell him anything. He didn’t know how to squeeze what he needed to say through the phone line, through the cracks in all the things that he wasn’t allowed to say.  
  
  
Benny must have heard it, the weight of things unsaid. “Is something wrong?”  
  
  
“No,” Ray lied. “Why would anything be wrong? I'm just calling to let you know that I'd like to be there to pick you up but if I can't be there, it's not because I didn't want to be. It's because something came up.”  
  
  
“You're sure everything's all right?”  
  
  
Ray heard himself blustering. “Look, Benny, I don't know if they have a similar thing up there in Canada, but down here in America we have this thing called friendship. And this is something that a friend would do. Like, for example, if one friend calls another friend and he's supposed to meet him at a certain time and a certain place and he can't be there, he usually calls him to let him know.”  
  
  
 _Please,_ he thought, _Benny, please hear the word ‘friend’ in all that._  
  
  
“So…” Benny sounded it out doubtfully. “Everything is alright then?”  
  
  
“Yeah, Benny. Everything is alright.”  
  
  
“Well, that's good to hear, Ray.”  
  
  
“It's good to hear your voice,” Ray admitted. God, it was good to hear his voice… “Listen, uh, I want you to have a safe trip, and I will be in touch.”  
  
  
“Alright, Ray.” Benny was still sounding nonplussed, but Welsh would set him straight.  
  
  
God… with Ray undercover, who was going to watch Benny’s back? _Hey, God,_ he thought, _please don’t let him be all alone in Chicago. He’s got friends here in the Precinct, but please, can You send someone to look after him?_  
  
  
It felt like such a foolish, stupid prayer, but it rose unbidden all the same.  
  
  
“You understand that, uh, I will be in touch,” Ray said.  
  
  
“As a friend?”  
  
  
Thank God, Benny had heard the most important thing.  
  
  
“Yeah, Benny. As a friend.”  


**_Epilogue_ **

  
  
They told him he couldn’t bring any personal effects. Nothing that might identify him as someone other than Armando.  
  
  
He knew he could keep no photographs, no letters, but despite their warnings, he kept two things: a gift from Benny and a gift from his Ma.  
  
  
Benny’s gift had made him laugh at the time. “When will I ever need this?” Ray had asked, turning it over and over in his hands. It seemed like such a useless thing, but it was very handsome. Made of brass, the symbols clear and its motion smooth. It looked old.  
  
  
“It was my father’s,” Benny had said. “I wanted you to have it. You never know when you might find yourself lost.”  
  
  
It hadn’t seemed like a practical gift. After all, you could ask directions anywhere in Chicago, and it wasn’t like he was planning to crash into the Canadian wilderness again anytime soon. But it had been Benny’s father’s, and now it was his.  
  
  
“Thanks,” he’d said, gruffly, and snapped the lid shut.  
  
  
He’d had Ma’s gift since he was twelve. It had been for his confirmation. He’d hated that day, and thanked God that it was the visiting bishop who performed the ritual, rather than any priest who knew him. The Host had nearly choked him, he was so full of fear.  
  
  
But he survived it, and Ma was so proud. “Caro figlio mio,” she’d said, smiling through tears, and kissed him on the forehead, where he could still feel the chrism. He remembered the feeling of hope after that Mass, buoyancy. He had been walking on air for a while, before falling back down to earth. He had thought, in the way children think things, that maybe this meant something… that things might get better, things might change.  
  
  
He put his hand in his pocket now, briefly touching his fingers to Benny’s gift, cold beneath his fingertips. His other hand found its way up to his throat, where his mother’s gift hung from its chain, a slight thing. Delicate.  
  
  
“We’re here,” the cab driver told him, pulling up by the filling station. It was strange how ordinary the moment was as Ray paid him, how ordinary everything had been from the moment the Feds put him on the plane to Phoenix. Cash’s face had been terse and unreadable. Ray was glad of that. He didn’t know what he’d have done if he’d been offered sympathy. “Good luck,” the man had said, and then Ray was alone.  
  
  
He opened the back door of the cab, and stepped out. He recognised the Mob guys who were waiting for him by the petrol pumps. They looked like anybody else, just in far better suits. Sal Langoustini’s face broke out in a smile of delighted recognition, and he stepped forward, abruptly squeezing Ray into a bear hug, kissing him on both cheeks.  
  
  
“Mando,” he said. “Thank God, it really is you. I couldn’t quite believe it till I’d seen it."  
  
  
“Yeah, it’s me Sal,” Ray said, hugging him back. The guy was huge, all muscle beneath the expensive clothes. Ray knew he should’ve been terrified, but for some reason he wasn’t frightened at all.  
  
  
Behind him, the cab moved off into the brightening dazzle of the day. Sal put his arm around Ray’s shoulder, protectively, and walked him to the car. “We’ll get you home,” he was saying, “get you cleaned up. Sorry it’s just the town car, the limo woulda been more comfortable, but we didn’t want to advertise you were back just yet. Hey, when did you last eat? You gotta eat something…” The guy had obviously spent the last couple of weeks worried sick about his cousin, and he let it out now in a stream of chatter. Ray understood that. He recognised that kind of familial concern.  
  
  
And then he was in the back seat, wedged between a bodyguard and a crime boss. The cruel, wicked man who was now his dearest friend turned in his seat to face him, talking, and smiling, and unwrapping sandwiches.  
  
  
A two hour journey lay ahead, on long, empty roads, and then… he had no idea what would happen then. Ray knew that he hadn’t really been abandoned, that the FBI would always be nearby. At the other end of a phone line, of a long lens camera. But for all that, he knew he was alone. He was behind enemy lines now, and nobody he had loved in the real world could ever follow him here.  
  
  
 _Nothing,_ he thought, as he smiled back at Sal and took a bite of his sandwich. _I have nothing to guide me, to remind me who I am._  
  
  
No. Not nothing.  
  
  
A ghost, a compass, and a cross.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank a whole bunch of people for helping me on this one. My son for the comment which sparked the original plot premise, and for talking all hours about our beloved characters, watching dS with me, laughing his head off, and throwing food at the screen. Ride, with whom I shared the initial idea, and her reply... 'yes, yes, yes.' I'm not sure I'd have dared go with it, if not for such an enthusiastic response. Tiff for getting me off my fat ass when I'd been stuck for thirteen days, paralysed with fear because this was my nanowrimo manuscript. Vicki for cheer-leading as I sent her each 'bit.' Lynne for encouraging feedback while I was writing, including insights into US parlance and dress, not to mention the involvement of the Zukos, the importance of not leaving McGuffins lying around in trash bags, and Chekov's fabric freshener. 
> 
> Tortie, of course, for in depth dS discussions and character analysis... I hope you enjoy this one.
> 
> A family member of my mother's generation for having the courage to tell, and to those in the church who listened to him.
> 
> And finally... I cannot say this enough. THANK YOU so much JDD for not laughing at my crappy Italian, just kindly taking over translation, and sharing your inside knowledge of exactly what does make a Chicago Italian family tick. Everything from the way US church schools were organised in the sixties, to the details of Chicago weather and geography, to... well, everything else. I've learned a lot about my own writing through your beta - thank you for your precise attention to detail, whether fact checking or grammar picking. The last ten weeks were a great writing experience, and I almost feel as though I've visited Chicago. I'm sure that your Nonna and my Mamó Grá would be very proud.


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